


Holding Only Air

by statikos



Series: Empty Graves [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Minor Queenie Goldstein/Jacob Kowalski, Other, Past Gellert Grindelwald/Credence Barebone, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-29 20:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 70,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10861908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statikos/pseuds/statikos
Summary: As suddenly as he was plucked out of his life, Percival Graves is tossed back into it... only it doesn't feel likehislife any more. When a far-fetched chance at regaining some of his former status appears on his doorstep, he immediately seizes it: but at what cost will he regain himself--or will he at all?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm nervously beginning to upload this, knowing the good old "real Percival Graves" chestnut has been cracked open many times--hopefully there will still be something new and exciting about it for those who like that sort of thing, and you will enjoy it nonetheless!
> 
> I've marked a Certain Ship in the tags that is likely not going to happen for a while (and I mean a very, very long while)... but no point disguising my intentions, I guess. In general, this story should be treated as a canon divergence: i.e. I'm not going to be too bothered about future canon or Word of God interfering with any of this. It's more of a "what might happen if" than a "this is what I totally think happens!!!" so let's get that out of the way right now, haha.
> 
> This is, as always, dedicated to my beautiful fiancée, who is more into Percival Graves than anyone else I know. Fair enough, honestly.

_Next to my heart is ever so lonely,_  
_I'm holding only air,_  
_While here in my arms it's adorable!_  
_It's deplorable_  
_That you were never there..._

Dearest Enemy (1925)

 

For months, the world had existed only in distant sound—footsteps from above him (or around? Perhaps below?), muffled voices, faint scratches and the groan of furniture. Of course, he did not know it has been months. Time bled away between the fades in and out of unconsciousness, and the difference between opening and closing his eyes became non-existent in the blackness to which he was confined.

Sometimes he felt himself coming to in a position he could not remember arranging himself in, with faint memories of a conversation already slipping from his mind. Though he could not remember eating or drinking, the faintness of starvation never seemed to last more than a moment before he would fade out, then back in, finding it gone as if he had only imagined it to begin with.

He was kept perfectly balanced on a razor’s edge: strong enough to keep purchase on life, weak enough to be unable to care about his condition. After a long time, the darkness had simply become normal, and the focus or acuity to question his predicament was all but lost until the hunger came back.

With it came flashes of brightness and sound. Memories of someone pulling him out of the blackness into a room that looked remarkably like his own; of his own voice speaking to him and then replying (“your mother’s name?” “Evelyn” “and who is Dahlia?”); his hand itching for his wand in a rush of anger, before blackness blossomed behind his eyes again and he awoke alone.

Truth be told, there was no despair in the realisation that he was dying. He had already been dead a long time, and could not for the life of him think of any good reason to remain alive. So, when the light shone on him once again it barely occurred to him that it might be anything more than an unusual trick of his dormant imagination, or that the voices surrounding him were in any way connected to the two pairs of hands who lifted him from the floor.

“I can’t believe it…”

“Get the healers. Now.”

“Mr. Graves, can you hear us?”

“Mr. Graves!”

The sound and sensation were still distant, but this time unquestionably real. Percival Graves lifted his heavy head slowly, furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak—before losing his grip on consciousness again, and sagging in the arms of his rescuers.


	2. The Broken Road to Recovery

_The song is ended,_  
_But the melody lingers on._  
_You and the song are gone,_  
_But the melody lingers on..._

(Irving Berlin, 1927)

**MOLL DYER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, 1926**

Up until now, Percival Graves could not recall ever having spent more than an hour in a hospital even as a visitor, let alone a patient. The sterility of the off-whites and pale blues surrounding him had long since begun to unsettle him, and as he lay reluctantly in bed his eyes scoured the ceiling for cracks and blemishes he had already found and agonised over a thousand times. The trouble was there was very little to look at in his hospital room, aside from an obnoxiously bright bouquet of marigolds someone had placed in the vase on his nightstand (which he was trying desperately to ignore) and a rather dull painting of a perpetually sleepy Persian cat.

This had not mattered much in the first few days he had spent awake, since frankly he had barely been able to process anything more complex than the healers asking him his name (which, clearly, they already knew) and how many fingers they were holding up. As the days passed and the heavy smog clouding his mind slowly dissipated, he became increasingly aggravated by the lack of information he possessed: chiefly, how it was he had ended up bound, blinded and gagged by several powerful hexes and imprisoned in his own storage closet.

If the inability (or unwillingness) of his caretakers at Moll Dyer Memorial to provide him with answers was frustrating, then the fruitlessness of searching even his own memory was worse. For the first time in his life he had found himself truly helpless, and lying in a hospital bed for the better part of most days was doing very little to alleviate his frustrations.

Sighing, Percival let his eyes sweep down from the ceiling and fix tiredly on the cat painting across from the foot of his bed. The cat appeared to have rolled onto its back in its sleep. When he clicked his tongue at it its ear twitched, but it showed no other signs of noticing him. He rolled his eyes. Even the damn paintings weren’t engaging with him.

A knock at the door drew his attention, but he didn’t speak; he had grown used to people moving in and out of his space with very little regard, something he had rarely humoured before this whole fiasco. This time, however, when the door opened it was with a broad, confident sweep rather than a timid creak—and instead of a mousy orderly who timidly avoided his eyes, it was none other than Seraphina Picquery who stepped through.

Even in his hospital bed, Percival tried to sit a little straighter. “Madam President.”

Madame Picquery shook her head. “Stay still, won’t you, Graves?”

She turned her head slightly to cast her eyes around the room. Almost immediately, the cat in the painting flopped onto its side and lifted its squashed face, watching her calmly with its amber eyes. Graves squinted at it accusingly as Picquery closed the door behind her and sat down in the wooden chair beside his bed. He could not help but feel it didn’t suit her. The room seemed to have shrunk the moment she had entered, and the plainness of the chair seemed stark against her aura.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Percival met her eyes with what he hoped was a smile. “I suppose you want to know why I haven’t been at work.”

He immediately regretted his feeble attempt at a joke. The President’s eyes grew steely and her jaw tight and then—just for a moment—Percival saw her swallow a lump in her throat, as if she were holding back an incredible pain. She exhaled slowly through her nose, and when she breathed in again her composure had returned.

“Actually,” she said quietly, “you have.”

As he stared, perplexed, her eyes flickered away from him uncomfortably. “My apologies. I specifically asked the staff here to withhold information from you while you convalesced. I was concerned the… distress would hinder your recovery.”

“What distress?” he asked, leaning toward her slightly.

“There is no kind way to say this.” She looked up at him again. “Your healers here estimate you may have been imprisoned for up to three months. During this time, your short-term memories were repeatedly Obliviated and you are also likely to have been under the Imperius curse. Additionally—”

She paused, a brief courtesy. Percival realised that his mouth was hanging open, and his eyes had widened considerably. Once he had collected himself slightly, she continued.

“Your home, your job and your identity were assumed by Gellert Grindelwald, who used them to commit several serious offenses.”

This time there was a very long silence.

“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” said Madam Picquery cautiously, but her face was already starting to swim in front of him.

“Where is he?” Percival finally asked softly.

“In custody,” she told him. “He tried to set an Obscurus on the entire city. He was detained by the Goldstein sisters and a magizoologist from Britain.”

“ _Both_ Goldsteins?” Percival rolled over onto his back, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “I suppose there’s no chance of this being a horrible dream?”

“I’m sorry. No, there isn’t.”

When he finally turned to look at her again her stern face had softened slightly. He averted his eyes again, lip twisting with discomfort; for some reason, her sympathy was even more wounding than her indifference would have been. Percival was not used to inhabiting any sort of victim role, and it was even more unnatural to fall into it around a woman he respected and was used to supporting. Unable to meet her eyes again, he shifted in place and gazed up vaguely at the cat painting. After glowering at him, it turned away and started grooming itself boredly.

“So,” he began, throat dry. “When can I get back to work?”

Picquery shifted in her seat and leaned forward to assess him. “Luckily, you were found quickly after Grindelwald’s arrest. Physically, you should be fine now.”

The unspoken addition dangled in the air between them, so Percival simply gave it voice. “But…?”

She sighed, bowing her head. “But until we can verify _exactly_ when you were replaced, and that you are no longer under the effects of any curses—”

“—You can’t risk it,” he finished for her, closing his eyes. “I understand.”

The President nodded slowly. “I’m putting you on mandatory leave for at least a month.”

He sat up a little. “Who will—”

She glared at him. “And I _order_ you not to worry about it.”

“I thought I was on leave,” he retorted.

There was a pause before she leaned back calmly in her seat, smiling warmly. “Nice to see your audacity intact.”

Percival smiled back, though weakly.

“Your house may not be the way you remember it,” she warned, after another brief silence. “But you’ll be free to stay there, as of today. Aurors will be monitoring you until we can be sure you’re free of influence.”

“Fair enough,” he said, shrugging one shoulder in a show of nonchalance. Then he sat up, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Where’s my wand?”

“It’s evidence,” she replied. “You’ll get it back once you’ve been cleared, after it’s been properly examined.”

The frustration that had been gathering in his chest uncoiled as if to lash out, but he clenched his jaw and kept it contained as he rose to his feet. “Fine.”

She stood as well. “I’ll let you change. There’s an Auror waiting at the front desk to Apparate back home with you.”

“Understood.” He crossed the room, the newfound frailty of his own limbs still constantly unsettling; he wobbled as he reached the dresser, and put his hands out to lean against it. As he did, Seraphina strode over to him, took his hand and shook it firmly.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Percival looked up at her, dipped his head respectfully, and squeezed her hand in return. “See you soon.”

He watched her as she left the room, and only when she stood as a silhouette in the doorframe did another question occur to him.

“Madam Picquery?”

She paused in the doorway, her turban silhouetted against the light streaming from the hallway. “Yes?”

He gestured to the vase on the nightstand, where the marigolds stood out clownishly against the pale hues of the room around them. “Who sent _those_?”

This time the silence was longer, and she cast her eyes down as she spoke again. “Dahlia.”

Her black robe swirled around her she as vanished around the doorframe, and Percival was left on his own. He lifted his head and looked into the cheap mirror fixed to the wall above the dresser, flinching again to see the face that still didn’t seem like his own. With facial hair grown in, dark and untidy, and gauntness carving hollows around the eyes and cheeks, he barely recognised it at all.

The clothes that had been brought to the hospital for him had clearly not been selected by someone who was familiar with his wardrobe (or, perhaps, with fashion in general)—but why did it matter, Percival thought bitterly, if it seemed he wasn’t going anywhere for a long time anyway? He tucked in his cream dress shirt to the pair of brown slacks they had given him, tugged on the matching suit jacket; then took one look at the tie they’d given him and shoved it into the pocket instead of putting it on. He was ill, not blind.

Moll Dyer’s halls had become familiar to him in the past few days. First he’d been wheeled through them, barely aware of his surroundings; eventually—and far more quickly than anyone seemed to have suspected—he was navigating them himself, much to the frustration of his nurses who seemed determined for him to behave like a proper invalid.

 _So unreasonable,_ he thought, shortly before walking into a chair. A nearby painting of a shapely nurse tending a window-box of medicinal plants giggled, only to be silenced by his withering scowl.

“Mr. Graves?”

Someone leaned out into the hallway to catch a glimpse at him—then they winced and draw back, waiting for him to come closer rather than coming to meet him. They had done it so quickly he couldn't make them out by appearance right away. Only when he stepped out into the lobby did he recognise her; Marisol Lopez, an Auror a few years his junior, looking sheepish.

“It’s good to see you out of bed,” she said, gently. “How are you feeling?” 

He forced his lips into a half-smile. “Fine; thank you, Marisol.”

She smiled back wider—then it cracked at the edges and she leaned forward, taking him anxiously by the arm.

“Mr. Graves, I’m sorry, I—” She faltered. “I was one of the Aurors who found you, and I—”

“ _Thank you_ , Marisol,” he snapped. Tension had shot through him, sudden and searing, and he brushed her hand away roughly. Her hurt expression gave him pause, however, and he sighed heavily (somehow, he seemed to have been holding more breath than he’d thought his lungs had room for). “Excuse me. I’d like to go home.”

Marisol swallowed and nodded stiffly, then took him by the arm. Percival saw the hospital lobby warp and twist for a split second; then the warmth of the room disappeared and they stood in the cool night air on a most familiar street. The road was glistening black with a recent fall of rain, but the sky above them was as clear as a still lake, dusted with faint stars and the crisp outline of a half moon. They had Apparated next to a street lamp, which guttered as they appeared beside it, but besides this there was little to suggest that any of the street’s inhabitants had noticed them; the curtains of the surrounding houses were drawn, and the only sound came from a cold but feeble wind rustling through the trees and whistling down the road.

In front of them was Percival Graves’ house. From the outside, there was nothing in particular to distinguish it from the houses of his mostly non-magical neighbours; except for that the moment Marisol tapped her wand against the front gate, it swung open on its own to reveal a much grander house and garden than had been visible from the street. What had looked like a small square of neat lawn with two tidy rose bushes flanking the front door expanded into a fairly large courtyard garden centered around a silvery fountain. At its centre were a pair of scales slowly tipping from one side to the other. As they drew closer they could see that the pan on one arm of the scale slowly filled with water, then sank—then, as it reached the bottom of its trajectory, the water would spill over the brim and the pan on the other side would begin to descend.

On either side of the fountain were two beautiful garden arches covered in roses—they had walked underneath one on their way in, and now faced another which welcomed them to a path leading to the front door. Through it, they could see a pair of silver hedge clippers floating leisurely up and down the length of the path, occasionally trimming a small section of the surrounding garden. As Percival watched them, however, something else caught his eye and he stopped, frowning.

“My roses were white,” he murmured to himself, touching one of the wine-red flowers that now adorned the arches. Marisol had walked ahead of him, and now stood at the front door with a faintly uneasy expression. Percival looked away from the roses and went to join her.

“As far as we know, none of your belongings were taken,” she told him. “A few items of interest were taken by the investigation team but if you notice anything that seems to have been tampered with—”

“Yes, yes. A Section 5D.” He looked at her with a thin smile, but she only frowned back at him.

“Ah… no, sir, you aren’t to handle anything like that.” She set her hand on the doorknob, and graciously averted her eyes as his jaw sagged briefly into a stunned expression. “Send us an owl immediately. Yours seems to be fine; the house elf has been taking care of her. She seems to have been Confunded, but she isn’t hurt, so—”

“Wait,” he cut her off, a dreadful realisation dawning on him. “I… had two.”

“Excuse me?”

“I had _two_ house elves.”

There was an unsteady silence. Marisol winced. “I’m… I’m sorry, sir, the house was searched very thoroughly. We only found—”

“I see. I… well, never mind.” He sighed. A brief tally of his house’s inhabitants flashed through his mind: at least the owl was all right, but if only one of the house elves was accounted for, he didn’t want to think about what had happened to his cat. “I can take it from here, Marisol. Thank you.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Graves.” She hesitated, then opened the door for him and stepped aside. “So, shall I just…?”

“Well, you don’t need my permission, do you?” It occurred to him that such a statement could have been interpreted as bitter or confrontational—he softened it with a meagre smile. “I do mean it. Thank you for your help. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir,” she replied.

As he stepped through the front door, he heard a ‘pop’ behind him, and knew that he was alone again. A chill went up the back of his neck; but he ignored it, and closed the door behind him. He had entered an empty hallway that, for all its familiarity, no longer felt like home. Even the paintings were no longer familiar—most of them had been taken down and turned to face the wall, and the few remaining frames were empty. Although everything else looked largely the same, he found himself obsessively searching for anything that wasn’t rather than taking solace in what he recognised. Were the cushions on the lounge suite in the same position? Perhaps he was remembering them wrong. He didn’t recall bringing those books in from the library, and someone had left a cup on the coffee table… but how much of that could have been the investigation team? All the same, it was a feeling of intense violation quite unlike anything else he had ever felt. To know that Gellert Grindelwald had not only taken over his home, but his _life_ … and even the people around him didn’t seem to know exactly what the extent of his actions had been.

 The momentum of his thoughts compelled him to sink into one of the nearby leather armchairs. He had sat here a thousand times before, but now it felt almost as if _he_ were the imposter; a stranger in someone else’s home.

Suddenly, there was a thump in the hallway, like a firm footfall—Percival leapt out of the chair and to his feet again, eyes wide. There might be little he could do without a wand, but at the very least he wasn’t about to be taken by surprise. Bracing himself, he stole across the room to stand to the side of the door. As it creaked open he tensed, ready to strike—

…And a large silver tabby cat trotted in, stared at him for a moment, then mewed affectionately and came to rub against his leg.

Feeling rather foolish, Percival knelt and stroked it, breathing heavily as the adrenaline continued coursing wildly through his body without a purpose. He was not the sort of person who normally felt sentimental about animals; but familiars were different, and Claudius had been with him for a very long time now. Although… he didn’t remember him being this fat. Percival picked up the (now purring) cat under its forelegs and looked its chubby body up and down. So, apparently, Grindelwald didn’t feel bad about largescale acts of murder and terrorism, but had a soft spot for cats?

Somehow, that was even more unsettling.

Sighing, he set Claudius down and trudged up the stairs to see how much of his room was still intact. The cat trotted along behind him, still trying to wind around his legs as he reached the landing. Percival nudged him out of the way with his shin, and opened the door to the master bedroom.

It was in no way as he remembered it.

True, the décor had remained largely the same. That was the same silvery, art deco wallpaper he had bought to cover the former, fading floral print; his curtains, midnight blue; even a bedspread he recognised. The state of the bed was _not_ his though: sheets tangled frantically at the foot of the mattress; a spill of something that he hoped was red wine near the pillows; and, as he looked closer, a telltale strand of platinum blonde hair clinging to one of the pillow cases.

He realised he didn’t remember anyone blonde. A wave of dizziness hit him—he remembered his own face looking down at him, smiling, as if it had leaned out of the mirror to taunt him—and he had to steady himself against the bedpost with one hand.

The pictures in this room had all been taken down as well, but this time he could see why. One of them had been left leaning against the dresser, and he could see that its inhabitants—a stern gathering of three, featuring a former President, his father and himself between them as a young man—were all frozen in the frame. Peering closer, he could see that the background surrounding them still moved faintly, and that the faces of the portraits had turned blank and featureless.

Cringing, he turned the frame around to face the dresser. It, too, was in an unusual state; a shirt sleeve poking out of a drawer here, another drawer left ajar there. In all, his room appeared to have been completely turned over, and lived in by someone far more chaotic than himself.

Something dawned on him, and he steeled himself as he walked toward the bedstand. On it, a small silver picture frame had been turned face down, and Percival could see that the back of it had been pried open. He lifted it into his hands, took off the backing board and checked the contents. Behind the photograph, as he had left it, was a folded letter—except someone had removed it, refolded it, and placed it back in the frame with “HA HA” written on it in black ink. Seething, he put the backing board back on and set the frame face down again. So, his life had been invaded down to the tiniest detail, and he was expected to simply bear with it until someone else had finished “looking into it”? Livid, he stormed into the ensuite and flicked the light on to wash his face and shave. At the very least, Grindelwald wasn’t going to ruin that for him.

He had only just finished when a loud yowl from the hallway startled him into nicking himself with the straight razor. With a washcloth to his face (and feeling that, perhaps, he had _never_ been so jumpy in his life) he went back through the bedroom to peer into the hallway. Claudius the cat was standing at the top of the stairs, his back arched and his fur so on end that he almost resembled a silver porcupine. His ears were pinned firmly back, and he was growling lowly at something at the bottom of the stairs.

Percival stepped behind him, half expecting to see yet another European Dark wizard coolly entering through the front door. But there was nothing—only an empty hallway.

“You need to calm down,” he told the cat, quite seriously, patting the cut on his cheek with the washcloth. Claudius ignored him, hissing loudly.

In retrospect, it was perhaps a rather stupid oversight, particularly given what he had already been through—but even with his admittedly limited actions since arriving home, at this point Percival was simply too tired to think. Ignoring the cat, he walked down the landing to the second bedroom to prepare for bed. For now, the master bedroom was decidedly too much trouble.

This room appeared to be almost completely undisturbed, although the fact that there was no dust did seem to suggest that the house elves had been through a few times. Come to think of it, he hadn’t _seen_ Poppy since arriving back; but he could only assume she had already gone back to her quarters, and simply hadn’t heard him. She was the older of the house-elves and the more absent-minded, and if the other was missing and presumably dead—well, he didn’t pretend to understand how house-elves processed these sorts of things, but Privet had been her son, after all.

He had just been contemplating this, and peeling back the duvet on the bed, when from the landing Claudius screeched again. This time Percival heard him thundering down the stairs in hot pursuit of something, followed by a second, more frightened wail.

In spite of himself, he felt resentful. _Couldn’t it wait? Just for one night?_

Nonetheless, he followed the sound down the stairs, where he found the cat curled up, quaking under a small display table. The empty vase sitting atop it had been knocked over and there was a hole in the nearby wall—dripping down the wallpaper was a mysterious substance that somewhat resembled oil or very thick, black ink. Percival knew far better than to simply touch it, but even a cursory glance revealed that more of it had dripped onto the floorboards, leading a choppy trail toward the storage cupboard under the stairs.

 _Excellent._ He sighed inwardly, then knelt to check on Claudius. Though terrified, the cat seemed unhurt. Percival scooped him up in one arm and immediately felt two sets of claws dig into his shoulder as the animal clung to it. As he approached the cupboard, he lifted the cat onto the stairs through the railing, where it watched him with trepidation.

The black liquid was seeping from under the door—though as he watched, he noticed that it seemed to dry in seconds and then peel off into the air in twisting, smoke-like shapes before vanishing. It was quite unlike any magic he had ever seen, and even as he rested his hand on the latch the thought crept into his mind that he might not be fully prepared to deal with whatever lay inside. It was quickly wrestled to the floor by another thought: did it really matter any more?

He threw open the door, and immediately lifted his arm to cover his mouth. The same smoke-like material had almost completely filled the cupboard. Even without his wand Percival could tell it must be some terrible sort of Dark magic, to exude such an overwhelmingly hopeless and negative aura; he staggered back, but the smoke rippled and vibrated, creating a sound that strangely resembled a human scream before knocking him backward against the wall in the hallway. Still covering his mouth to avoid breathing any of the substance in, he aimed a kick at the cupboard door in a vain effort to contain it. The smoke simply pushed it back open, and billowed out toward him.

Amidst it all he saw the cat bolting away up the stairs, and a rasping wail surrounded him as the whiteness of the ceiling above him was drowned out by the black miasma. His hand went instinctively to his pocket, where his wand would normally be—but of course, it wasn’t there. He closed his eyes tight…

There was another rush of air, then silence.

He kept his eyes squeezed shut another moment longer, then tentatively opened them. The smoke was gone, as if it were never there… but the black residue all but covered the floor around him, not to mention his clothes. Frowning, he picked himself up off the floor and brushed himself off. The smoke was gone—and it had taken the last of his patience with it.

So, when he saw a limp pair of legs through the open cupboard door, his reaction was a little less than sympathetic.

“Really?” He snapped, and slammed the door—only for it to be caught on a fallen suitcase that had shifted amidst the chaos and refuse to close. He tried again, with no result. “ _Really_?”

As he pushed the suitcase back into the cupboard, he continued his tirade.

“Do you have _any_ idea—” He picked the suitcase up. “—what my week has been like?”

He tossed it into the cupboard. By now he could see a man lying face down amidst the bags and boxes, motionless but breathing.

“You’re _really_ going to attack me in my house _now_? Right _now_?!” He was panting, gesticulating almost madly. “You couldn’t make a damn appointment? Call ahead? I’m supposed to be _off-duty_ , you little—”

“I’m sorry,” said a very small voice, stopping him in his tracks. He saw the stranger’s head moved, and realised it was him who had spoken.

“You’re what?” He laughed breathlessly. “You’re _sorry_? In that case, what was I so upset about? You only _broke into my house_ and _assaulted me_.”

The stranger was trembling now, and as Percival spoke he began to curl up into a ball, quivering. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“You _should_ be sorry!” Percival shouted firmly. “And when I’m finished with you, you _will_ be!”

There was a pause in which the adrenaline drained from his body and he found himself standing in the hallway with a razor-cut on his cheek, limbs shaking, raving at a person in a closet. It was then he realised that his would-be assailant was now crying, burying his face in the fallen items to muffle the noise.

It was not the first time a criminal Percival had cornered had burst into tears in front of him. However, there was something unusually vulnerable about this person. Everything about them, from their voice to their posture, screamed “victim”, not “perpetrator”. This sort of hopelessness could hardly be faked; it was simply sad.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger kept babbling. Then, under his breath, “Please, help me... someone. Help, please…”

By this point Percival was more than uncomfortable—and incredibly tired. Very slowly, he knelt to the floor and leaned inside the cupboard.

“Look,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere, but I’m not leaving you in the cupboard. Come on out.”

“Help me…” The stranger was unresponsive. “Mr. Graves…”

Percival froze. Ordinarily—that is, when he had not been recently imprisoned and Obliviated for heaven knew how long—he considered himself to have an excellent memory for people. In this case, he didn’t recognise the stranger by voice or appearance. So how did they know him by name? By reputation, perhaps—but why had he appeared now?

“I’m sorry, who…?”

The stranger rolled over and Percival could finally see his face fully. His jet-black hair looked uncomfortably dark next to the paleness of his face, though parts of it were beginning to burst pink and red with crying, especially around his eyes, which were squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Graves,” he choked. “You were right.”

His eyes, at last, opened—but they were a blank white.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, holding out his arm. “There’s no one—there’s nothing… I’ll go with you.”

Dumbfounded, Percival simply stared at him. Desperately, the stranger reached toward him, crawling forward—and finally, he collapsed, unconconscious, on the floor at his feet.

Silence reigned for a long time, and Percival simply stayed kneeling where he was, with one of the young man’s hands loosely draped over his boot. He looked back up at the stairs, where Claudius had cautiously crept back down to peek at them from a safe distance. Slowly, Percival chanced nudging the unconscious man’s shoulder with the back of his hand—but he was decidedly unresponsive.

Percival looked around, half-expecting someone else to appear. If he was meant to be under _constant_ surveillance…

“ _Fine_ ,” he groaned finally, when the hallway remained empty save for the two of them and the cat, scooping the stranger up under the armpits and dragging them slowly toward one of the downstairs guest rooms.

It was going to be a _very_ long night.


	3. You Won't Remember It

_One little kiss, a moment of bliss, then hours of deep regret_  
_One little smile, and after a while, a longing to forget_  
_One little heartache left as a token_  
_One little plaything carelessly broken._

(Irving Berlin, 1925)

 

Percival woke up in his bedroom to find it just as he’d left it before—before what? He didn’t remember now. What an odd thought. He stood up out of bed, taking his wand from the nightstand and his robe from the hook on the ensuite door. The sun was shining warmly through the window as he opened the curtains, casting a beam across the still dim room.

He looked back at the bed. The sun was falling in a long stripe across the pillows—but both were rumpled, and the sheets were peeled back on both sides, as if someone had been sleeping next to him. A strange wash of emotion closed over him. Was she back? He looked down at the picture frame next to the bed, but it was empty—as it had been for more than a year.

“Good morning,” said a soft voice.

 _It_ is _a good morning,_ he thought tiredly.

A pair of warm arms wound around his waist. “Where are you going? I wasn’t quite finished with you.”

 _Nowhere,_ he thought dismissively, and tilted his head aside so Dahlia could lay her head on his shoulder. He could not for the life of him remember what he had been so worried about the night before. Everything was calmer than it had been in months.

“Is there somewhere you ought to be?” A hand slid affectionately up his chest; he hesitated, then covered it with his own.

 _No,_ he thought.

He could feel a smile in the voice. “I agree.”

There was a light jab as a wand pressed to his throat, then nothing.

He was on his back on the floor, and his bedroom roof looked distant as if he were falling further and further away from it. A man stood over him, too out of focus for him to make out their face even as they knelt down and touched his cheek almost gently.

“Hush now. You won’t feel a thing.” An oddly merry laugh, as if this were all incredibly normal. “And if you do, it doesn’t matter. You won’t remember it.”

And he was somewhere dark again, in a state he could not remember being in even as a child—terrified, helpless, unable to tell if it was sweat or tears rolling down his face.

_You won’t remember it._

Someone was sitting next to him, leaning against him with their arm around his shoulders as if they were old friends. He was too tired to protest and besides, the warmth of their body against his was the only thing he had felt in days (weeks? hours?).

_You won’t remember it._

They turned to look at him but he could not see them out of his peripheral vision, too weak to lift his head—until they lifted it for him, taking him by the chin and smiling down at him. He was looking into his own face, but his eyes had an amused glint he knew he had never worn; not that way.

“I think this is almost the last of it. I’ll miss this.”

_What does that mean?_

“Soon, we won’t need to have these little talks,” his own voice mused to him. In spite of himself, he could feel his eyes rolling back, drooping closed. “I suppose I’ll simply kill you.”

The energy he could not find before spiked and he lurched forward to find himself in the spare bedroom, the sheets beneath him drenched in sweat and tangling around his limbs as he scrambled upright, panting. In desperation, he flailed for his wand on the bedstand—but finding nothing this time, he knew he was truly awake.

It took him a moment to gather himself enough to get up, and he intentionally waited a little longer once he felt collected—just to make sure—before heading downstairs to confront his unwanted guest. As he got to the foot of the stairs, he stopped.

The door to the guest room was open, and the chair he had put against it was sitting innocently in the middle of the hallway.

If his invader had escaped purely because he’d had his wand withheld, he’d have more than a few strong words for the Investigation Department. Percival rushed to the open door… then froze in the doorway, stunned by what he saw.

Poppy the house-elf was inside—clearly, it had been her who had opened the door—but the stranger had not fled. He was curled up in the corner with his long legs drawn up to his chest, staring silently into space as the house elf sat patiently next to him. In front of her was a small tray laid out with a cup of tea and what appeared to be a warm, buttered croissant.

It was all so bizarre that Percival half considered simply throwing his hands up in the air, turning around and walking back out. Instead, he cleared his throat. The stranger looked up, but Poppy didn’t respond. When he cleared his throat again, though, the young man looked nervous and gently tapped the house elf on the shoulder. She looked up at him, smiled, and followed his gaze to the doorway.

“Master!” she squeaked. “You’re back! Master wasn’t in his room so Poppy thought—Poppy made breakfast but Poppy didn’t… didn’t…”

She trailed off sheepishly, then hesitated and spoke unsubtly out of the corner of her mouth.

“Master’s guest is looking unwell.”

“Poppy,” said Percival, very seriously. “Why did you open the door?”

Poppy tilted her head, her large brown eyes doglike. She turned her ear toward him slightly, looking nervous—it was then that he realised she could not hear him.

“Why. Did. You. Open. The. Door?” he repeated.

Though it took a moment, she seemed to decipher his message—and she simply motioned to the stranger, who had turned his face away again. “To give Master’s guest his breakfast.”

“He isn’t a _guest_ , Poppy, he’s—” He raised one hand to his temple and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He broke in and attacked me.”

“Poppy knows how much Master Graves likes Keedence,” she continued, apparently ignoring him. “And Poppy promises not to misbehave again.”

Percival sighed. “Poppy, I need you to—”

She cut in over him. “Poppy will do her best, sir.”

“ _Poppy_.” He said, a little louder—though he felt uncomfortable shouting at her, now, even as she turned away from him and pushed the tray toward the young man again, rubbing his shoulder encouragingly. She looked at him again, and this time he didn’t speak; simply pointed at the door and mouthed “please”.

A broad, but nervous smile spread across her face and she hurried out, pausing at the door to make an effort at quietly closing it… only for it to slam at the last second, which she did not appear to notice.

Percival was alone with the strange young man who had emerged from the smoke creature. That was bizarre enough to think, let alone experience. Last night when he had left the man in here, he had had all manner of questions lined up, rushing through his head before he had fallen asleep; but the nightmare he’d woken from seemed to have shaken them from his mind, and he found himself at a loss for words.

It was difficult to describe his first impression of the man in daylight. He had retained his timid demeanour, but now that they were not tangling around on the floor surrounded by dark, magical smoke Percival could make out more detail. He was pale and gaunt, with a severe bowlcut that might have once suited his age, but certainly didn’t now—his clothes were dark, and slightly torn and dirty, though they did not appear to have ever been of high quality. He was avoiding looking up into his face, though his eyes darted up anxiously when Percival stepped a little closer.

“So.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Whoever you are—er, Keydence. Start talking.”

The man’s eyes widened, and he looked terribly hurt. “Mr. Graves?”

“We aren’t talking about me,” Percival continued. “We’re talking about you. How did you find my house?”

“W-what?” He blinked up at him. “You showed me. You told me if—if it ever came to it, I-I could…”

“Let me clarify something.” Percival leaned forward, lowering his voice. “ _I_ did not show you anything. I do not know you and I do not want to. What I want to know is—”

The man’s eyes welled up with tears almost instantly.

“Stop,” he whimpered. “Please. I—I know this is my fault, but—but please. There’s nobody else. There’s _nothing_ , Mr. Graves, I don’t—”

“No, _you_ stop, and listen—”

“ _Please_!” he cried. A bit of the smoke began to rise up around his shoulders and he seemed to contort with the effort—but rather than sagging, he started to wobble to his feet. Percival took a pre-emptive step back, widening his stance defensively. “Where else am I supposed to go? I told you everything, you _know_ there’s nothing else—I never _had_ anyone else—”

He started to crumble again, finally burying his face in his hands.

“You know my name,” he whimpered. “I know you do.”

Percival swallowed thickly. “You have it wrong.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll—I won’t do it again, I promise, Mr. Graves, just…”

“No, _listen_.” Percival put out his hands in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Let me be absolutely plain with you. Because—strangely enough—I think in this case, we are just as confused as each other.”

“Say…” The man was wavering now, taking a wobbly step toward him. Percival had just moments to react as he started to crumple, only just managing to catch him before he fell to the floor.

“Look,” he began, trying to get him upright—the man reached for his shoulder for purchase, meeting his eye for a split second. It shook Percival in a way he had not been expecting. All of his preconceptions aside, he had never seen someone who looked so deeply and utterly sad—even filled with tears, his eyes barely sparkled at all.

“Please say it.” The man looked up at him hopelessly, his voice so quiet Percival had to lean in to hear him. “My name. Just once.”

Percival hesitated, then took his weight more fully in his arms and guided him down to sit at the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I really, truly… have no idea who you are.”

The look the man gave him was no longer frustrated, only hopeless. “How can that…?”

“The person I assume you know,” Percival began, slowly… he sighed. “Or rather, the person you believed to be me… is not the real Percival Graves. He stole my identity and impersonated me for his own gain. If he met you, if he spoke to you—then I can almost guarantee everything he told you was a lie.”

The man looked wounded.

“But then I—” He faltered, then spoke softer. “But why?”

“I assume for his own gain,” said Percival. “I was—am a respected man. My position would have offered both freedom and influence.”

“So—so everything was a lie?” The man seemed to be getting more frantic. “Everything you said about—about letting me join your world, about—about your vision and… the things you asked me to….”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Percival said. “Now, will you please just tell me who you are?”

But the stranger had fallen silent, shaken by what he had said, and his words appeared to be falling on deaf ears. His tears were no longer flowing; they simply clung to the brims of his eyes, and only occasionally spilled over and down his cheeks.

Percival wasn’t used to people who cried. The people he arrested and interrogated might feign tears or distress, but they usually abandoned that approach when he met it with coldness. After that they would usually become frustrated and turn aggressive instead—but not this person. Perhaps it was this that had him increasingly doubting his malice, in spite of what he’d already seen and experienced.

 He averted his eyes from him. Normally, he wouldn’t have had to deal with this sort of situation alone—someone else would have been in the room with him, even if it were just to mind the door. There was a certain emotional intensity to this one-one-one confrontation that he disliked terribly. Attempting to rush along a response, he cleared his throat. “When you’re ready.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said, finally lifting his head. But he looked away again. “I can’t…”

“For the sake of argument, then,” he said. “Just tell me your name.”

There was a pause. He saw the man’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Credence.”

A strange name—but perhaps no stranger than something like ‘Porpentina’ must sound to a No-Maj, he supposed. “Thank you. Was that so difficult?”

He heard a mumbled response that sounded like “no”. Then it was silent again. Sensing he was getting nowhere with this approach, Percival twisted his lip and tried again.

“If this is simply a mistake, Credence…” The use of his name seemed to have his attention. Emboldened, Percival continued. “If this only happened because you thought I was someone else, then, well… we could come to some sort of understanding. You wouldn’t be in any trouble.”

He didn’t respond, but nodded slowly.

“But for that to happen,” he continued, “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Credence hesitated. Finally he spoke again. “I… I’m just not sure where—where to start. The first time I saw you, or the first time we spoke, or when you asked me to help… with…”

Something clicked as he trailed off, and Percival leaned forward abruptly, taking him by the shoulders in something like excitement.

“You _know_.” How could he not have seen it before? He couldn’t help but laugh at himself, shaking his head as he continued. “Credence, if you knew _him_ —if he spoke to you, showed you this house—then you _know_ what he was doing.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re…”

“Listen.” He bent to his level. “I’m sure you have questions and I… will do what I can. But it is very, _very_ important that you answer mine. More important than you know.”

“Are… are you sure you…?” Credence looked up into his eyes again, his expression haunting—but not as haunting as his words. “You sound like him.”

At that, Percival released his shoulders and took a long step back. He clasped his hands together, feeling over them as if to make sure they were still his. Credence simply watched him—Percival realised he had never looked away.

What if he _did_ know him? He already knew his memory had been Modified—how did he know that it hadn’t once included this person, who had appeared (quite literally) out of thin air? One thing he knew for certain: if he was telling the truth, Credence knew more about “Percival Graves” than even MACUSA. In fact, he knew more about “Percival Graves” than Percival Graves himself. This Percival Graves had been important to him, somehow; the way he’d looked at him, the way his voice had sounded… Percival had the feeling he had been very important to him indeed.

Just then, he was struck with quite a sudden, strange realisation: it _hurt_.

He had been angry enough knowing that Gellert Grindelwald had deceived his colleagues, his friends—and angry, too, knowing that they had fallen for it, that nobody had seen through it enough to demand the truth. It was another thing, though, to meet someone who had _cared_ about the false Graves. Thinking they were him. As if they were him. Instead of him.

It shouldn’t have mattered to him, but it did.

( _…And if you do, it doesn’t matter. You won’t remember it._

_It doesn’t matter._

_You won’t remember it._ )

He felt a jolt in his knee and realised he’d barely caught his weight on it as he’d stumbled backward. His head was spinning—there was something important he’d been doing but he couldn’t quite remember…

“Mr. Graves?”

His vision was so blurry he could barely see, and his blood was pounding in his ears. As he blinked, Credence gradually came back into focus where he sat wide-eyed at the end of the bed, leaning forward as if he might get up. To _help_ him.

…No. Not _him_. Percival felt sick.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine. Stop staring,” he snapped. Credence flinched and turned his face immediately, as if he’d been slapped.

 _I’m not your Mr. Graves!_ Fuck _your Mr. Graves!_ he wanted to scream at him, frustration filling him to boiling point. But just as quickly as it did, he felt a surge of guilt. Perhaps the Percival Graves Credence had known had been—at least on the surface—a kind person. Maybe he wouldn’t have shouted at him (or at least wanted to); maybe he’d never treated him with anything less than gentleness. Maybe, at least in Credence’s view, he was worse than Gellert Grindlewald.

“Excuse me, I… I have to…” He faltered. No! Not now. Not in front of him—in front of _anyone_. He’d started trying to justify himself—and why? Why did it matter? He’d never felt his emotions surge out of control like this in his life—it was as if he were still a prisoner, but this time wide awake throughout. He almost wished he could fade away from it all again and wake up who knew how long from now, knowing nothing, feeling nothing.

Credence was looking at him again tentatively. His injured gaze didn’t sting any less.

“Stay there,” he managed to say, breathless. “I’m going.”

He turned and stormed out, slowing to a halt halfway down the hall, just across from the cupboard under the stairs from which the smoke had appeared last night. Cursing, he leaned against the cupboard door and simply glowered at the hole that had been left in the wall. Never had he found himself at such a loss to describe what he was experiencing. It had all been so simple before; a job, a life, a daily routine that had made sense. Percival’s fists clenched, and his eyes began to sting angrily. He’d simply never felt defeated this way, and realised with shame that he didn’t know how to calm himself.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door to jolt him back into reality. He’d almost forgotten that the world had kept turning outside—but couldn’t it have waited just a moment?

He opened his mouth to answer, but the person at the door was already letting themselves in. It was Marisol again—she looked a little frazzled, and as she entered she sighed heavily and hung her coat up on the rack near the front door, as if she had done it a hundred times.

(She had, Graves realised. They’d been investigating his house this entire time.)

“Sorry, Mr. Graves. There was such a mess at the office this morning. Feels like we’re going nowhere with this…” She trailed off and looked up at him, blinking. “Oh! Are you all right?”

“Fine, Marisol,” he said, tiredly. “What were you saying?”

She hesitated, twisting the corner of her lip. “Ah… that’s right. I’m not really able to talk to you about it. No offense, sir.”

“None taken.” He straightened up and went to meet her at the door, resting his hands in his pockets. “Just checking in on me, then?”

She nodded, and handed him a brown paper envelope she had been carrying. “Madame President wanted me to give you this. It’s a collection of the official press releases about the Grindel-Graves incident.”

Percival frowned. “The what?”

“Oh—just a nickname for… well, you know.” She looked apologetic. “We can’t release the finer details of the case to you just yet. But she thought it was only fair, as the hearing’s next week…”

“I see. You’d like me to testify against him?”

Marisol blinked. “N… no, sir, your hearing.”

“My what?”

“Your hearing, sir. We need to determine—”

He laughed drily.

“No, no, no. I _know_ what a hearing is. What I am _asking_ —” He leaned forward—she was only barely shorter than him, but shrunk back a little all the same. “—is why _I_ am on trial for being kidnapped and impersonated by a criminal?”

“Sir, it isn’t personal. We’d do it for anyone, it’s just that… Section 5 states—”

“I know what it states!” he snapped. “I specifically _wrote that section_ of the Code of Magical Misconduct when it was updated in 1920—in fact, you probably found the first draft when you were going through my belongings. There is no need to _tell me_ what Section 5 _states_.”

As he put his hand to his forehead, Marisol picked up her coat again in the silence.

“I know you know,” she said, finally. “And Mr. Graves, I know you’re under a lot of stress, but I’m just doing my job.”

“Right,” he muttered.

“I was going to stay,” she continued. “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You aren’t. This is just…” He shook his head. “It’s just a lot to swallow.”

“Hopefully that clears a few things up.” She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “Look, the hearing isn’t going to be too harsh. We just need to determine some things before we can clear you to come back to work.”

“Of course.”

“And obviously, if you’re well enough, we would like you to testify against Grindelwald, too. It’s just that that will take a little longer—we’ve got witnesses and authorities travelling from Europe, evidence that we can’t verify without experts, not to mention nobody knows anything about that bloody Obscurial.”

Percival jolted inwardly, and hoped she hadn’t seen it. Had he closed the door to the spare room? Even if he had… he glanced nervously back down the hallway. “You don’t say.”

“Ugh. I shouldn’t really be talking to you about it, but I wish we had you in the investigation department. Tina knows a lot, but…” She sighed. “This is the biggest international incident we’ve ever had to handle. Everyone’s at their limit.”

“The Obscurial,” Percival continued. “Madame President never mentioned exactly what happened.”

“Oh. Well, it’s not exactly in the official releases—we had to keep it quiet. It was bad enough telling everyone Grindelwald had infiltrated MACUSA and tore through half the city without mentioning there was an Obscurus as well.” She pulled her coat back on. “Obscurials scare people. Nobody wants to think about their child becoming—well, that.”

“No.”

“It was… awful. The energy coming off that thing…” She shuddered. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I hated that we had to kill him, but we had no choice.”

 _…Wait_.

Percival hoped his surprise wasn’t visible—instead, he just motioned for her to continue.

“Gosh, Tina was so upset. Don’t blame her. I just hope that poor guy is somewhere better now.”

“I’m sure he is,” he assured her, unable to help but be distracted by the recent memory of the supposedly dead Obscurial being fed breakfast by his house elf minutes ago.

“Thanks, Mr. Graves.” She smiled at him for the first time that day. “Anyway. I should get going—I was going to stay, but I really ought to get back to the investigation.”

He nodded. “Please. It’s very important.”

“I’ll let you know when—” There was a clatter at the other end of the hallway that sounded suspiciously like china breaking. Marisol tilted her head. “Is—is someone else here?”

Time seemed to slow. Percival Graves realised that he had a choice. If he relinquished Credence, the investigation team would take him away. He wouldn’t be able to learn any more on his own for some time, but it would be the proper thing to do. On the other hand… there might not be anybody who knew more about his impersonator’s movements than Credence. It would be selfish, but…

He smiled and shook his head. “Damn cat. Knocked over a vase earlier, too.”

Marisol looked past him and for a moment he tensed—then he realised she was looking at the fallen vase by the table in the hallway, still where it had landed the night before. “Ha! Cats. I’ll see you later, sir. Just don’t worry—we’re handling this.”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

She Apparated.

Percival stood in the empty hallway with his lie for a moment. Then he turned around and half-bolted back to the guest room, throwing the door open.

The first thing he saw was Credence, trembling in the middle of the room. His face and posture were almost normal—but at the ends of his sleeves, black smoke appeared to have replaced his hands. He was still holding an empty saucer, but as Percival entered it began cracking apart where the tendrils of smoke curled around it. On the floor at his feet was the teacup, shattered in a puddle of its spilt contents.

He stood quite still. “Ah.”

Credence looked up at him helplessly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It—it just fell through my hands and I—”

“Credence…” Percival Graves was beyond being surprised, beyond being angry. “Let’s just calm down.”

“I—” His face twisted, and he finally bowed his head. The smoke at the end of his sleeves twisted and flared until it appeared to fasten around his neck like a heavy yoke.

What did he even have to lose? Percival steeled himself, and as the smoke began to billow out into the room, he took a deep breath and walked straight into it.


	4. What You Have and What You Are

_High up in the sky the little stars climb_  
 _Always reminding me that we're apart._  
 _You wander down the lane and far away,_  
 _Leaving me a song that will not die._  
(Hoagy Carmichael, 1927)

**COURTROOM 2, MACUSA HEADQUARTERS  
One week later…**

“—suffering dehydration and malnutrition, under several curses restricting movement, sight and other senses—”

Percival couldn’t help but feel that the rest of the room was much more comfortable discussing his imprisonment than he was.

“—and, in the opinion of his healers, showing clear symptoms of extensive and repeated Memory Modification. The extent of the damage—”

This testimony was for the benefit of the panel, not him. He closed his eyes and let the sound blur around him. It became a distant, muffled murmur as if he were listening to them speak from underwater, before Seraphina’s clear voice cut through the mire.

“Thank you, Doctor. Mr. Graves?”

He blinked and straightened his back. “Yes?”

She inclined her head toward him. “Do you take any issue with any of the evidence that has been presented today?”

 _Yes._ “No, Madame President.”

“Is there anything you would like to add?”

He thought about it. “I understand why I cannot yet be reinstated to the investigation team. But I would feel a lot better—all things considered—if I could have my wand back.”

Madame Picquery looked at Porpentina Goldstein, who was sitting next to her. She looked a little pale. “If you would, Tina.”

Tina lifted her hands above the table to reveal a long, thin box that must have been lying in her lap the entire time. Percival felt himself lean toward it.

“This hearing was never intended to accuse you of guilt,” Madame Picquery said. “We are simply clarifying for the official record that we do not currently believe that you colluded with Gellert Grindelwald. What we have determined today is that his treatment of you constituted a violation of numerous mundane and magical laws, and with your consent the information from this hearing will be used to press further charges in his upcoming court appearances.”

“How many is that, now?” asked Percival, not entirely expecting an answer.

“One hundred and thirty-seven charges,” the President replied coolly. “Are you quite sure you have nothing else to add?”

“Only ‘thank you’.” Percival found himself staring at Tina, whose hands were still curled over the box containing his wand. “And that I… apologise for all of this being necessary.”

There was a long silence. Seraphina met his eyes so firmly and for so long that even he had to avert his gaze under the pressure. She was waiting for something else, he thought—something that he didn’t feel he could say in front of the rest of them.

Finally, she turned to Tina. “Please return Graves’ wand.”

Tina silently slid the box across the table to him, and he restrained himself from seizing it, simply covering it slowly with his hand as he waited for the President to conclude things.

Sure enough, Seraphina Picquery rose to her feet, hands folded neatly over one another. “Percival Graves, we apologise for your ordeal. Enjoy the rest of your leave; we will discuss you returning to work closer to time.”

Percival didn’t really like the sound of that; nonetheless, he smiled thinly. “Thank you.”

“That will be all.”

While the appropriate parties were thanked and dismissed, Percival stayed where he was, took a deep breath and opened the box that contained his wand. As he did, he noticed Tina had stood up without moving away, and was watching him closely.

He tilted his head at her. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said. She swallowed, looked away. “It’s just—I had no idea…”

“I know.”

They both hesitated. He wondered what she must think of him now—wondered, even, where his treatment of her had ended and Grindelwald’s began. One thing he somehow knew for certain: it had been him who had fired her, not the imposter. Had it been somehow satisfying, he wondered, to suddenly have the advantage over a tough superior? Was he wrong for even thinking that?

“Your wand should be fine. Newt disarmed him and relinquished it properly,” Tina said—and she suddenly smiled at him with a surprising warmth. “I read his official statement today, but he wrote, too; he said, uh…”

He realised almost instantly that her smile wasn’t for him at all.

“He said he hopes you feel better. And that you won’t be too hard on yourself.”

Percival Graves had never met Newt Scamander—the supposed hero of this story who had returned to Britain well before he had even woken up in hospital—but he couldn’t help but feel uncomfortably understood. “Tell your friend I’m just fine. Thank you, Tina.”

She smiled again—this time it was for him, he thought. Percival stayed where he was, now holding the returned wand in his hand, watching her leave alongside Madame Picquery.

Tina’s testimony had been particularly difficult to hear—and he had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone had noticed. He simply hadn’t been able to keep the discomfort from his face when she’d described the events that had culminated in Grindelwald’s arrest—it had seemed like weeks would not have been enough for what had supposedly happened in just two days. Worse still, Credence’s destructive outburst as the largest and most powerful Obscurus ever witnessed had not yet been fully described to him, and he was now even more painfully aware of what a risk he had taken to hide him from MACUSA the past week.

It had, however, been surprisingly easy. In the beginning, he had imagined several nightmare scenarios in which an Auror would unexpectedly drop by to find Credence inexplicably listening to loud jazz in the living room surrounded by thousands of empty biscuit packets, or—possibly—destroying the entire house with his unfathomable powers. It was not even a day before he realised that his fears were quite in vain.

Credence was so quiet that even Percival would somehow forget he was there at times; what was more, his Obscurus hadn’t appeared ever since Percival had calmed him (and it?) the day he had first hidden him from Marisol. The flipside of this was that he had been able to obtain very little information from him—in fact, Credence had been asleep almost every time he had checked in on him, and unresponsive when he was conscious. After all that he had heard today, Percival felt less surprised by this; he supposed that being manipulated by a Dark Wizard, exploding into a mass of darkness and rampaging through New York, and being blasted to near death by several highly trained witches and wizards, were all fair enough reasons to feel exhausted.

He had simply sat in a room with several highly trained witches and wizards for the past two hours, and he also felt exhausted. Beneath that, though, was a renewed sense of urgency—he must talk to Credence again now that he knew more about what had happened.

Perhaps just as importantly, there was the weight of his wand back in his hand. He had felt unbearably vulnerable without it, but his time in hospital combined with the past week had made it almost normal. Just holding it again seemed to give him a boost as he stood and slowly strode out of the courtroom with the others.

For a few moments, everything felt as it should. Him, the President, Tina, Marisol and a handful of other Aurors parted from the others who had given evidence and carried on together to the elevators, arm-to-arm. He even felt his eyes closing, relaxed by the normalcy of it all, until the elevator came to a stop on the lobby floor. The doors opened, but nobody got in or out.

He looked around. Suddenly, Marisol nudged his arm gently from behind him.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, realising. “Good luck.”

He stepped out of the elevator as the rest of them continued upward, the weight of uselessness crushing down on him again.

Although Apparating took only a second, it felt like a very long walk from his front doorstep into the house, where Poppy let him in, smiling, to which he gave a nod. He had stopped trying to talk to her in complex sentences over the past few days; it only confused and upset her when she was unable to understand. It was simpler to communicate in basic hand-gestures and body language, and write down what he couldn’t convey through that (with that said, she couldn’t read terribly well).

The fireplace in the living room was aglow as he entered; and, more unexpectedly, Credence was there, sitting in one of the armchairs with Claudius sleeping on his lap. Percival hadn’t expected to see him looking so alert for once—for the past few days he’d been almost constantly asleep—and Credence seemed just as surprised to see him. He blinked rapidly and tried to rise, then immediately sat back down when he realised he’d woken up the cat and started stroking it behind the ears in apology.

Percival smiled.

Then he realised he was smiling, and instantly stopped.

“I didn’t expect to see you up,” he said. “It’s fine, but be more careful. I might have had someone with me.”

“I’m sorry.” Credence lowered his gaze. “I just—I knew it was you. From the sound.”

True; Credence had proven to be astonishingly good at perceiving people with very limited information. In the past week alone he’d been able to differentiate between all five Aurors who had visited just by their footsteps and distant voices, and somehow had also known if they had Apparated or come up from the path. His knowledge of this seemed to be quite accidental, though; the only reason Percival had even found out about it was because Credence had casually asked one evening why Marisol hadn’t simply used magic to get there if she was in such a rush. Percival had had to explain that there had been an automobile accident a little further down the road attracting a small crowd, and she hadn’t wanted to draw attention.

“Well, never mind.” Percival sank down into the armchair opposite him. He was often at a bit of a loss for conversation with Credence; it felt inappropriate to treat him like a houseguest, but equally unusual now to treat him like a suspect. “So. Er. How was your…?”

He gestured vaguely and Credence leaned forward in anticipation of the end of his sentence.

“…Day? Oh… fine.” He looked a little nervous, as if he thought Percival might not be quite satisfied with his answer. It took him a little while to add: “How was yours?”

“Fine,” Percival replied, reflexively. He absently lifted his wand hand and set it on the armrest, wand still between his fingers.

Credence’s eyes widened. “You got it back.”

“Oh? Yes.” He wasn’t sure what to make of Credence’s response to seeing the wand; beneath his normal nervousness, he seemed almost excited, and had shifted forward in his seat. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about some of the things I heard today.”

The excitement seemed to fade. “All right.”

“You see…” There was no easy way to put this. “A lot of people are under the impression that you died that night in the subway, Credence.”

Credence shuffled back in the armchair as if hoping it would enclose him as much as possible. Sensing unease, Claudius stood up and poured off his lap onto the floor, going to lie on the rug by the fire instead.

It was a while before he spoke again, quietly. “I thought so, too.”

“It’s all right,” said Percival, lowering his voice. He was getting a little better at the delicate approach. “Just tell me what you can.”

“It’s so unclear. Everything was just—just rushing, everything… I…” Credence’s expression twisted as he paused. Then he took a deep breath and went on. “I… remember you. Him. And the woman with the dark hair, and the English man. But then it’s… there was a lot of light, and everything just _ripped_ apart.”

“Ripped apart?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know how else to describe it. Like being torn in half, b-but in more than one direction—so many—and then… I just…”

His face had gone very white as he trailed off. Percival opened his mouth to say it was enough, but Credence went on, softly.

“I woke up in the church again. But everything was…” He bowed his head. “There was nothing, so I left.”

“Where did you go then?” Percival asked.

“Here,” said Credence. “I thought… well, I didn’t know what had happened to Mr. Graves.”

“And did you…” Percival hesitated, then said it anyway. “Did you want to find out?”

“Yes. No. I don’t…” He sighed. “I was afraid to see him. Afraid and—and angry. But there was nothing else.”

“Is that why you attacked me, at first? Because you were angry with Mr. Graves?”

“Well…” Usually Percival could tell from a person’s immediate reaction whether they had meant to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. In this case, it seemed Credence genuinely wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I couldn’t feel myself.”

“You…” Percival frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“I remember seeing you, and I… _think_ I remember what happened,” he told him. “But when I woke up in the spare room, I thought maybe it was just a dream.”

 _That’s fair enough,_ thought Percival. He asked, “Do you remember everything else since then?”

“I think so.”

“Nothing that you think might have been a dream?”

“No. I haven’t had any. When I was asleep, I mean.”

“That sounds nice,” Percival said drily, before he could prevent himself.

“Mm.”

Credence fidgeted so much deeper into the chair that he looked to be in danger of fusing into the cushions. Percival sensed he’d had enough. “Thank you, Credence. That was very helpful. You don’t have to tell me anything else.”

“Then—” Credence had jumped on the end of his sentence, caught himself and shrunk back. A few times now, though none so bold as when he had initially insisted that Percival knew him, he had shown this spark—a strange determination that seemed almost impossible for someone so downtrodden. Then it was as if he would crush it away before it could build to its peak. Besides being awkward, it seemed a shame; in those moments Percival sometimes found that he very much wanted to know what he felt so strongly about.

“Go on,” he said.

“May I please…” Credence looked up at him tentatively. “May I ask you some questions too?”

Percival considered it. “Yes. Though I might not be able to answer.”

“Not yet,” Credence added for him, as if he had heard that sentence many times before. He sounded so disappointed that Percival felt inclined to correct him.

“No; if I know the answer, there’s no reason not to tell you. But a lot of this…” He exhaled heavily. “A lot of it I don’t know either, Credence.”

“Then… are you sure…?”

“I’m sure. Go ahead.”

Credence leaned forward in his chair again, clasping his hands together tightly. He still looked very pale. “Do you know what I am?”

Despite the gravity of the question, only one thing came to his mind immediately. “A person.”

“Please…” He winced. “You—you know what I mean. A person doesn’t do this.”

“A person doesn’t ‘do’ tuberculosis,” Percival responded calmly. “Your condition isn’t who or what you are. Is it?”

“But I don’t even know what my condition is.” Though he didn’t speak any louder, Credence’s voice strained. “You called—he called me a Squib. Is that what that means?”

“No,” said Percival. “He’d have to be an idiot to think that. Only wizards can develop an Obscurus.”

“Is that what I am?” Credence hesitated. “What I… have?”

Percival explained, wracking his memory for all that he knew about Obscurials. Outside of the case information, there was very little. “An Obscurus is a sort of parasitic magic. It’s created when a witch or wizard tries to contain their power, or has it suppressed. A person this happens to is called an Obscurial.”

“I remember…” There was another pause. “That man in the subway said there were others. Are there?”

“No. Well, there are, but… they’re very rare. Because…” Percival trailed off guiltily.

“Because they die. Don’t they?” Credence looked up at him. He was not panicking; he said it quite levelly, even if his eyes were glistening. “Will I? How long…?”

“No,” Percival heard himself saying. “Of course not.”

 _Why did you say that?_ he asked himself immediately. _Of course they all die. Why lie to him?_

But Credence looked hopeful. “You can fix it?”

“I—well, _I_ might not be able to, but…” Flustered, he took another deep breath to gather himself. “I will look into it. You… seem to be doing very well, all things considered.”

How _was_ he doing so well? It seemed to be a question that had everyone involved stumped… though most of them had stopped questioning it now that they assumed Credence was dead. As far as Percival knew, there had never been an Obscurial who lived past ten. If that was so, there was something truly astonishing about Credence; though it was difficult to say what it was.

“Do you… do you think so? Really?”

“I… I can’t be completely sure,” Percival admitted, feeling quite foolish. “But I promise to find out.”

Credence was leaning so far forward in his chair now that he looked like he might fall off the edge—a stark contrast to earlier, when he’d been practically crushed into the padding. Perhaps it had been cruel to get his hopes up, Percival thought, but frankly he felt it would have helped much less to tell him there was no hope at all.

Maybe there _was_ hope, though. If nothing else, Percival had three more weeks of leave with little else to do, and he had been an investigator long enough to know where to find leads even with the most obscure information.

But by now, Credence had been staring at him for so long that he was beginning to feel a little embarrassed. He hadn’t actually _helped_ yet, after all. “So. Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

This time Credence’s cheeks flushed, and his lips pulled upward at the corners very slightly. It was the first time Percival had ever seen him smile, even faintly.

“So, I… I _am_ a wizard? You aren’t just saying…?”

Percival half-shrugged. “You must be.”

Credence closed his eyes. “Then one day, maybe…”

He trailed off, and didn’t say anything else; but Percival thought he seemed a little lighter for the rest of the afternoon.

Later on, as the sky darkened and he went up to bed, he wondered what it would be like when Credence was gone. It would not be for some time—he would have to find the proper way to introduce him to Seraphina and the investigation team, after all—but oddly enough, Percival didn’t like it nearly as much as he’d once thought. Perhaps it was a small thing, in what had become a vast and unfamiliar world, but it was simply nice not to be alone in the aftermath of it all. After all, it had been years since there had been anybody waiting for him when he came home.

More importantly, he no longer had to deal with the nakedness of being without a wand. As much as he’d recovered, his non-verbal magic was still inaccessible to him; so, for the rest of the day he had found himself using his wand for things that were perhaps not entirely unnecessary.

To begin with: Percival had determined to sleep in his own room again tonight, which he had been avoiding since he’d arrived home. The mess Gellert Grindelwald had left behind had been preserved by the investigation team throughout their search; but he was tired of allowing the man’s spectre to continue inhabiting his space, and after his conversation with Credence he had come upstairs to deal with it. He felt quite strongly that it was something he must do himself.

With his wand in his hand again, it didn’t take long to have everything back in its proper place, save for the paintings. Putting them back on the walls with their weirdly static, blank-faced inhabitants seemed wrong—they looked rather too much like No Maj paintings, except for the faintly moving backgrounds—but he had no idea how to fix them. In the end, he simply arranged them by size and leaned them neatly against the desk.

The moment he set them down there was a tap at the window. He looked up to see a very dignified looking owl on the other side of the glass. It seemed to have been there for some time, waiting patiently. Percival flicked his wand again to open the window, upon which the owl set its letter down very carefully. Then it fluffed out its wings before settling on the windowsill and closing its eyes, while he untied the black ribbon that had been tied around the small scroll he had been given. Percival recognised the President’s writing the moment he opened the letter, but the MACUSA seal was nowhere to be seen.

_Dear Percival,_

_Please do not share this letter with anyone else._

_I apologise for being unable to talk freely with you since you returned. It has been a challenging few weeks made all the more difficult without you. I do not know how you must be feeling, but for my own part I was devastated to realise what had happened to you. I have known you long enough that I should have noticed._

_I know how much you dislike discussing your troubles, but I want you to know that I am always here for you. When you are ready, there are a few things I would like to talk about in confidence._

_Your friend,_

_Seraphina_

In spite of himself, he smiled. It was true that he and Seraphina went back a very long time, but it was unusual for either of them to play the “friend” card unless it was an absolute emergency. Knowing her as he did, he could both appreciate the gesture at face value and realise that she was priming him for a subtler bit of interrogation. He smiled. It was just what he would have done in her position.

His response was much more succinct, if equally loaded:

_Dear Seraphina,_

_Our appointment is at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning. Meet at Weaver’s._

_Warmly,_

_Percival_

As far as a sense of humour went, he would be the first to admit neither of them had much of one; but he felt sure she would at least smile at that. Rolling his response into a tight scroll and securing it with the same ribbon Seraphina had tied hers with, he handed it to the owl, which had been dozing on the windowsill as he wrote. It bobbed its head almost as if it were bowing, then took the letter in one of its claws and hopped off the windowsill again.

Percival watched the owl sail silently away into the night sky. Then he turned and looked around the newly reorganised room. It looked like his again, at least, and that would have to do for now. All he needed to do was relax and go to sleep. Simple.

He sat on the edge of the bed for some time. Eventually, he lay down on top of the covers. The problem was that, as usual, he was concentrating so hard on relaxing that it was starting to make him restless. He could almost imagine a familiar voice beside him, teasing and scolding…

 _What could there be to worry about?_ The words echoed in his mind, and he was suddenly so angry that he sat up again. But of course, there was nobody there.

Percival reached over and flipped over the silver picture frame that was still lying face down on the nightstand. The background showed a section of his garden: the rose arches, which were still white in the photograph, not wine-red like the ones outside. There was no wind, only the slightly shifting light of the sun as clouds passed infrequently overhead. Underneath the arch, white ribbons were draped around a sign bearing two names, a date, and congratulations… but the two figures in the photograph were gone, and had been for a long time now. He had found the frame empty the day Dahlia left, and the letter under the backing board when he took the photo out to examine it.

Once, he’d questioned that. He’d thought magical paintings and photographs were meant to preserve the moment, and why shouldn’t this one? When Dahlia had moved out, he’d wished he could forget everything about her, but as time had passed he found himself wanting to remember. Why should everything leave with her, he’d thought angrily, even his memories?

That seemed such a stupid thing to be upset about now. What was one photograph from several years ago compared to actual months of his life? Besides, looking at it wouldn’t have made him feel better; just old, sad, and lonely.

 _What could there be to worry about?_ she’d asked. Honestly, he was glad she wasn’t here now. (If only for the fact, he thought darkly, that Grindelwald probably wouldn’t have left a loose end like her hanging.)

Cutting through the tense silence came a very quiet ‘tap’. He looked over at the window again, expecting another owl; then it came again, and he realised that it was the door.

He sighed deeply. “Yes?”

A pause, then a hesitant: “It’s me.”

“Credence?” He looked at the clock. “It’s past midnight.”

“Oh.” A longer pause this time; he could hear him starting to move away. “Sorry.”

“No, no.” He wasn’t getting to sleep anyway; he pulled on his dressing gown and went to the door, opening it just a crack to see Credence in the hallway. “I wasn’t asleep, but if you need something…”

“O-oh, I wasn’t—I didn’t—” Credence broke off and Percival could see him wrestling with something in his mind. “I actually… had something for you.”

Percival frowned. “For me?”

“Well, it’s not a thing, but you wanted…”

Credence looked up at him and for the first time he realised exactly how strange that was. He’d assumed he was taller, but at this angle with him leaning slightly against the door frame and Credence standing straighter than usual, it was more apparent that they were almost exactly the same height. Yet Credence was always dipping his head, so that he always seemed to look up at people, never down.

“You wanted me to tell you what happened,” he said. “And… I think I’ve worked it out.”

 _Right now?_ wondered the part of Percival that was still busy feeling depressed. But the rest of him was so glad to have someone to talk to and something to _do_ , the thought barely glanced off him.

“Come in, then.” He opened the door for him. He saw Credence’s eyelids flicker, but it took him a moment to realise it was because he was looking him up and down. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” mumbled Credence, whose gaze had settled on his collar bone before he tore it away again. “I didn’t mean t—sorry. Shall I just…?”

Percival pulled out the chair from the desk for him and sat at the foot of the bed. “Go ahead.”

Credence’s account was careful but—for the first time—highly specific. He was only a few sentences in when Percival hurriedly stopped him to fetch something to write with, but by the time he had finished his quill had long-since dropped from his hand in shock.

 _This_ changed a great deal of things.


	5. Sides of the Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really exposition heavy, but I wanted to get a lot of this out of the way before we go into the heavy lifting.  
> A lot of this timeline stuff is pretty difficult to nail, especially given that canon and Word of God keep contradicting each other... so, a lot of this might not hold up in the future. But hey! Fanfiction. P:  
> Thanks so much for all your feedback so far--I really appreciate it!

_If you should go back to your nowhere,_  
 _Leaving me with a memory,_  
 _I'll always wait for your return out of nowhere,_  
 _Hoping you'll bring your love to me._  
(Johnny Green, 1930)

There were several things that Percival now knew about the timeline of the Grindelwald Incident that did not gel with what he’d heard from the investigation team.

Firstly: that Credence had known “Graves” (or believed he knew him) for two months. This made no sense given the MACUSA theory that he had fled to America following a final—and, more importantly, verified—standoff with a group of Aurors in Europe less than a week before he was unmasked in New York. But Credence had explained that his meetings with Graves had been rather sporadic, and he’d frequently gone days or even weeks without seeing him at all. The first time he had met him was following the Tina scandal; she’d attacked his mother when she’d walked in on her beating him in the church (Percival might have been in law enforcement for a long time, but he still flinched). The result was that everyone at the church had been Obliviated, and he hadn’t seen Graves again for some time.

Which led to the second point: when Percival had asked why Credence hadn’t also been Obliviated, he’d seemed surprised and explained that Graves had done it himself. Why, then, he could still remember everything that had happened so plainly? Percival knew first-hand that Grindelwald was no amateur at Memory Modification but, even if he had done poorly, Credence still shouldn’t be able to clearly remember an event that had been specifically erased from his memory. He supposed it was possible that Grindelwald had intentionally fudged the spell if he had intended to use Credence later—but something about this seemed incredibly fishy.

Thirdly: Grindelwald had only begun grooming Credence for his task a few weeks after their original meeting. This was the part that perplexed Percival the most—why had he waited? Credence didn’t seem to know; all he knew was that he’d begun to see him around town, and had sought him out, determined to understand what had happened. He’d tried to follow him, but he’d always vanished; finally, two weeks after the incident at the church, Graves had come to him instead, speaking of some prophecy that both of them were purportedly a part of.

Prophecies were not Percival’s strong suit and Divination was such a woolly business that he could not be sure if Grindelwald’s “vision” had been legitimate or merely a tool to give, well, _credence_ to what he had been asking Credence to do. Which was, evidently, to look for a magical child amongst the orphans the Second Salemers fed and occasionally fostered. His criteria had been quite confusing—he’d simply insisted Credence would know.

“So, you didn’t know what he wanted to do with this child, or what would happen to them?” Percival asked, finally. “But you were told to just bring them to him?”

Credence shook his head. “Nobody would be missing them.”

He must have looked affronted, because Credence averted his eyes guiltily.

“They were homeless,” he said. “Maybe I thought—maybe he just wanted to help them.”

“Well,” said Percival, and left it hanging. Now that he knew Credence a little better, he found that he didn’t like to condemn him so readily as the public record had—but it was difficult not to judge someone who would hand over an innocent child to a criminal.

“I thought he would help _me_ ,” Credence suddenly said, unprompted. His hands clenched in his lap. “I trusted him.”

There was a long, awkward silence.

Percival said, slowly, “It must be quite difficult to trust me, then.”

Credence bowed his head. “Yes.”

“You still haven’t told me everything.”

It wasn’t a question.

“… No.”

“All right.” Percival stood up, set aside the pad he’d been taking notes with, and went to Credence where he sat in the desk chair. He hesitated, then gingerly patted him on the shoulder. “Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

Credence’s hand shot out suddenly and wound around his wrist, keeping his arm where it was, and he looked up at him as if there were something else terribly important that he wanted to say—but just as abruptly, he looked hopeless again and released him.

There was a pause, and then Percival realised he hadn’t released his grip at all—his hand had simply slipped through his forearm. As he looked down, the fingers still appeared to curve around his wrist, before vanishing _through_ his sleeve. Credence hadn’t noticed, somehow.

Percival was gripped with a sudden urge to take his hand, to seize it back from whatever ether it was being pulled away into, to _save him_ ; but as he shifted his hand to do so, he felt Credence’s palm turn solid against his fingertips again. It was enough. He pulled away quickly.

What had gotten into him?

“I’m sorry,” said Credence, quietly. “This must be a lot of trouble for you.”

“No,” he said, as firmly as he could. “This simplifies things, actually.”

Not strictly true—but he certainly knew more now than he had last week or even an hour ago.

Credence nodded and smiled again very tentatively.

“Go on to bed,” Percival told him, still picturing his pale hand slipping through his forearm. “I’ll follow up on all of this for you tomorrow.”

Needless to say, he wasn’t exactly well-rested when he left to meet Seraphina the next morning, so much so that he almost walked past Weaver’s—although, in fairness, that was an honest mistake. From the outside, there was no sign at all of Weaver’s Diner except for a plain, blue door nestled at the end of a corridor between two No-Maj shops. It had become a common haunt for Aurors since MACUSA headquarters had relocated to the Woolworth building, as it was only a few blocks away. However, as it was directly across the road from a No-Maj police station, it was impractical for any non-human clientele, and off-putting even to many who could “pass” as non-magical. Seraphina herself frequently told Percival she couldn’t stand the location—but that since they were the only ones near headquarters who made decent coffee, she would have to deal with it.

The atmosphere felt different as Percival entered (knocking three times from left to right across the middle of the door, which ensured the door opened into the diner and not an empty alleyway). Though there were only a few other customers dotted around the booths and bar, all of them seemed to recognise him, and uncomfortably averted their eyes as he walked in. Even the owner, August—who Percival was quite familiar with at this point—gave him a slight grimace.

“So,” he said, as he walked past him. “Where’s your boy today?”

Percival frowned at him. “My what?”

August scoffed. “That kid you were all over last month? You brought him in almost every week.”

The penny dropped. “Oh. That wasn’t…”

“Right. _Sure_.” August rolled his eyes. “Buddy, it’s cool. I’m not gonna out you. Just… seriously, have some self-respect.”

With that, he turned to walk down the bar. With the shock subsiding, Percival was angry enough that he put his hands on the counter and beckoned him back. “Now you wait a moment—”

“Gentlemen.” Seraphina’s voice cut through the air; turning, he realised she was seated in the booth behind him. “Is everything all right?”

August looked away and carried on hurriedly to the other end of the bar. Seraphina nodded and Percival joined her at the booth, indulging her raised eyebrow with a sigh. “Apparently _I_ was here last month.”

“I see.” Seraphina’s eyes flickered over to August briefly. “That might be useful to know. I’ll send someone down to talk to him later.”

“Mm.” Percival had thought that seeing her would make him feel better, help him make more sense of things. Instead, he felt more scrutinised than ever, knowing how much he had already hidden from her.

“You’re looking _better_ ,” Seraphina remarked, after a short silence—although the emphasis she had placed on ‘better’ seemed to suggest she still didn’t think he was at his best. “How have things been?”

“Fine,” said Percival, automatically.

She nodded. “And how have they really been?”

He paused as August came over with the coffee pot, waiting for him to leave before continuing. “I need to be doing something. I’ve never been away from work this long—knowing what _he_ did, Madame President…”

He trailed off, shaking his head. Seraphina took a sip of her coffee.

“You understand why I can’t let you rejoin the investigation yet,” she said simply. “Moll Dyer told me they were surprised you were even functioning—they wanted me to order you into mandatory therapy. I need to be sure you’re healthy.”

Percival blinked. “Why didn’t you order me into mandatory therapy?”

Seraphina stared back. “Because you would despise mandatory therapy.”

“Well, yes,” he said, “but that is hardly the point.”

“You would have resisted it every step of the way, and that would defeat the purpose.” She smiled slightly. “But when you’re ready, a referral is waiting for you.”

A longer pause this time. “We’ve been down this road before, Seraphina.”

“After the Dormer Incident. I know.” She folds her hands on the table in front of her. “You never took my advice then, either. I’ll say the same thing: I cannot force you to do anything, but...”

She hesitated. Percival watched her face carefully—she was still composed, but her eyes were downcast, and when she looked up at him again they were wide with worry.

“… I’m concerned about you,” she said, finally. “How can I not be?”

Percival looked her then not as Madame Picquery, MACUSA President, but as Seraphina, the Horned Serpent prefect who had been his role model the moment he stepped into Ilvermorny, who had stood beside him at his father’s funeral and given a speech at his wedding. There was more between them than friendship—in a way, she was almost family.

He did not break, but he cracked slightly. “This is too much, Seraphina.”

“Then talk to _me_ ,” she implored. “If you won’t talk to anyone else.”

His hands clenched on the table. Opening his mouth now, alone with her, would mean spilling everything—he knew himself that well. It would mean admitting his lies before he had a plausible excuse, and condemning Credence to a fate he could not forsee. Most importantly, he was afraid; afraid to be vulnerable and, worse, of it being _public_.

“I can’t.” He swallowed. It hurt. “Not right now.”

She looked at him intently for a few moments, as if hoping he might change his mind. When he didn’t, she leaned back in her seat and exhaled slowly. “I suppose we don’t want to make a scene.”

“No.”

“There was something else,” she said. Her hand went to the bench beside her. “A few things, actually. I have a message for you from Dahlia.”

“She spoke to _you_?”

“I wrote to her when you were found,” said Seraphina, “not entirely expecting a reply. I thought you would want her to know. She never responded to me, but she sent flowers.”

Percival recalled the marigolds on his nightstand with discomfort. That _had_ been a rather Dahlia thing to do.

“And there was a note,” he put together, “but you thought it might ‘distress me’.”

“It _would_ have distressed you,” said Seraphina, stiffly. “Look.”

She lifted her hand from the bench and placed a postcard on the table in front of him. It was a repeating cartoon image of the Napa Valley Opera House falling down in a rather insensitive depiction of the San Francisco earthquake, before springing back into place with silhouettes of witches and wizards dancing in the windows, and what appeared to be a house elf swinging on a chandelier. Along the bottom were the words “Making Theatre Magic!” and, underneath, “The Other Opera House – Napa, CA”. But in opposition to the lively scene on the front, the message on the back was a mere eight words:

_Dear Percy,_

_Get well soon._

_Best wishes,_

_Dahlia_

“I see your point,” said Percival, putting it down. He still felt as if he had been slapped, but he was quite sure it was a dulled blow compared to what he might have felt if he had read it in Moll Dyer’s.

“I’m sorry.” Seraphina scowled down at the postcard, then looked back at him. “You can do better.”

He only shrugged and looked away from her. There hadn’t been anyone in his life since Dahlia—in fact, he was quite sure Credence was the first person to even stay over since she had moved out. (That didn’t count, obviously.) Honestly, it wasn’t something he even considered any more. If Dahlia had taught him anything, it was that some people had lives that went at such a reckless pace it was impossible for them to keep step with anyone else.

“Anyway.” He sighed heavily. “There was something else you wanted?”

“Actually, there was something I was going to ask if _you_ wanted.” She had dropped the subject without a second’s hesitation; he was relieved. Again she reached down to the bench beside her, this time with both hands, and lifted a thin black briefcase onto the table.

Percival looked at it. “What’s this?”

“I can’t let you return to active duty while all of us are focussed on the Grindelwald case,” Seraphina said. “Technically, I shouldn’t allow you to do any Auror work at all. But I _could_ ask for you to review some closed cases as an assessment of your mental fitness.”

In spite of himself, he smirked. “You knew I would be bored, so you gave me homework.”

She smirked back. “Semantics, Graves.”

He reached out and slid the briefcase across the table, hooking it onto the seat beside him. “It’s something.”

As he left the diner shortly afterward, he realised he hadn’t learned anything for Credence. But where to even start? Without access to the investigation, he was pessimistic about learning anything at all. With a chill, he once again envisioned Credence’s hand slipping through his wrist.

Was Credence simply fading from existence? Was that how an Obscurial died, when their time came? Percival found that the only information he even had about Obscurials outside of the case details was based almost entirely on horror stories and superstition. His grandmother had once said she’d seen one as a child, sounding terrified—his father had scoffed and said she was simply imagining things. It was at once a subject so unsettling that nobody wanted to speak about it, and so farfetched that nobody concerned about appearances would admit to being afraid of it.

If Grindelwald’s plan had been to force the wizarding community out of hiding by forcing them to confront such a fear, he’d very nearly succeeded. If that had happened, Percival thought, he could have woken up into a very different world; assuming he woke up at all.

Credence was sleeping again when he got home, with Claudius curled up in a ball on his stomach. Percival was getting used to peering in on him now and then, as if reminding himself that he was there. He looked quite different when he was asleep, perhaps because his face was relaxed and not eternally anxious as it was when he was awake.

Suddenly as he looked at him he was struck with the impact of what August had said. What exactly had Credence been to Gellert Grindelwald? The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed that their relationship was much more intimate than he’d first realised. Perhaps he had realised, and simply hadn’t wanted to consider it; after all, he felt sick thinking about someone else treating Credence like that in _his_ body—and not just for his own sake.

An anxious thought occurred to him: did Credence still look at him like that? He squashed that thought down quickly and closed the door, unsure which answer was worse.

He was still holding the briefcase that Seraphina had given him in one hand, and it was the thought of doing something at least theoretically productive that motivated him as he walked away from the guest room and upstairs to the study. Grindelwald had left his mark here too, however, it seemed he was not much one for deskwork—none of his writing materials seemed to have been disturbed much, although the case files he had kept at home had apparently been tampered with, as the investigation team had removed them all. The legal books on the shelves above the cabinets seemed to have been rummaged through, as they weren’t stacked in the order Percival remembered them, and one or two were missing. He was still finding these things every day—tiny touches of someone else in his house, reminders that nothing he had considered private could be considered as such any more.

Laying the briefcase on the desk in front of him, he popped it open and picked up the first file.

“Dormer, 1922” read the top right corner—he almost put it down and rolled his eyes. Of course Seraphina would take advantage of his forced time off to make him confront his past. But then, hadn’t he brought that upon himself?

November, 1922. It was one of the few things he could remember with total certainty after Grindelwald, although he felt sickeningly sure that it was one of the many memories that had been pried from him during his confinement. He doubted it would be very useful to Grindelwald, since it was by now an old case and definitively closed. Percival sighed and opened the file.

A black and white photograph of the crime scene was fastened to the first page with a paper clip, though Percival didn’t need it to remember. Simply glancing at it he could remember exactly what it had felt like, standing in the thick snow by the lake, looking out at the shattered hole in the ice. Though the darkness of the water in the photograph could have easily been mistaken for depth, Percival could distinctly remember that it had been wine red with blood. The victim hadn’t drowned; one of his arms was still lying on the ice as if grasping for purchase. He might have been able to pull himself out, if his skull hadn’t been caved in by a rock.

It defied description. Magical murders were bad enough, but at least they were usually clean. In this case, the murderers had not been wizards at all; it was three No-Maj boys between sixteen and nineteen, and the victim was a magical child of six.

Oliver Dormer had been at the park with his parents when he’d wandered off and encountered the No-Maj boys. They’d been playing some game on the frozen lake, and he’d approached. From there it was unclear what had actually happened. Juvenile magic was notoriously raw and unpredictable; perhaps he’d been trying to impress them, or perhaps it had been completely involuntary. It didn’t matter. The outcome was a hole in the ice, and a dead little boy.

Undoubtedly, it was the worst case Percival had ever been involved with; not least because there had been no way to punish the perpetrators under wizarding law. He didn’t need to read the interview transcripts to remember what they’d said; “the kid was possessed”, “we were just defending ourselves”. He’d felt sick looking at them. Sick because they so clearly believed what they were saying—sick because their fear was _real_. Something had happened that those boys couldn’t explain, and they’d reacted with violence; looking at the case now, Percival could only imagine how horrifying the reaction would have been to something as massive and destructive as Credence’s Obscurus, rather than the fledgling magic of a small child.

To many in the wizarding community it was a reminder of the importance of segregation from the No Majs—to others, an example of how wizarding law failed to effectively protect them. The boys hadn’t been charged—they couldn’t be. All that Percival and his team had been able to do was Modify their memories as quickly as possible, so they could be returned to the park before their families reported them missing.

So, there was no justice for Oliver Dormer, no matter how much Percival had wanted there to be. As Head of Magical Law Enforcement, it had been his job to remain calm and cool the tempers of his Aurors. _Anyone who attempts to take justice into their own hands in this instance will be stripped of their rank and charged appropriately,_ he had written in a notice to the investigation team the day after the murder. But a loose-cannon Auror never became an issue, because the same day, Oliver’s father had kidnapped all three of the murderers and killed them, then himself, on the same lake where Oliver had died.

 _That_ photo almost hurt more to look at. This one had been on his watch. So many “should haves” and “what ifs” had flooded his mind, but none of them had mattered. One body had become five in the course of forty-eight hours. There had been panic, in and out of MACUSA, and pressure like Percival had never felt before or since.

In spite of it all, he had always tried to keep Dahlia at a distance from his work. It was something he had begun to do unconsciously; she was simply a part of his life he wanted to protect from all the unpleasantness of his work. Let her be sensitive and naïve, let her still cry to see a bird strike a window, let her smile at small things like rain and babies and love songs. The last thing he wanted was for her harden to the world like he had.

So, he couldn’t talk to her about the Dormer case. He couldn’t tell her why he was coming home late and spending all night in his office and not in their bed. Dahlia was an artist, empathetic from a distance—unlike him, she was of the opinion that feeling deeply about something was the same as understanding.

That was why Dahlia had walked into the lounge one night to find him crying on Seraphina’s shoulder instead of hers, his face leaned into her neck, her hand on the back of his head as she had calmly held him to her. In retrospect, he supposed it had looked very bad.

He and Seraphina were in name coworkers, but beneath that veneer was an unconditional bond that felt very much like having a sibling—something neither of them, as only children, could perhaps truly understand. It had plagued them at Ilvermorny and it plagued them here: were they more than friends? Well, yes, but not the way everyone seemed to think. Certainly not the way Dahlia came to think.

The case files strewn all over the desk in front of him told only one part of the story: a tragic tale of a little boy killed by ignorance and fear, and the grief-stricken father who’d avenged him. It didn’t tell the stories of the people who had dealt with the fallout of the events. The people who had pulled the bodies out of the lake, bloody and frostbitten, or the people who’d methodically cleaned up the scene behind magical barriers, while throughout the rest of the park No-Maj families revelled in the snow. The reporters who’d flocked in the MACUSA lobby, the same faces every day, some thriving, some withering with the weight of it all. The people who’d raged, who’d privately celebrated to know that the three No-Maj boys had paid with their lives, even if nobody would ever admit it, and the ones who’d simply quivered and kept their children indoors. Then there was him: the Auror who had held everything together, except his own marriage. Only he and Seraphina had ever known exactly what had happened; he never spoke about his personal life at work. He hadn’t even told his family until after Dahlia had moved out.

His life wasn’t in the transcripts or the photos in front of him. Even when things had been going well, there were things he simply hadn’t wanted to show anyone. Now he could no longer say with certainty that even his memories were his alone. What if somewhere in the blank and blurry spaces was the one pivotal moment that had _mattered_? Or what if the milestones he could remember weren’t even real?

Nothing was certain any more. He felt sick.

Percival buried his hands in his hairline and sat there staring at the file until it blurred. Finally, he sighed, flipped it closed, and blinked away a stringing feeling in his eyes. He pulled the briefcase over again and rummaged through the files. Most of them were names he remembered, cases from the last few years of his career. Then, as he reached the bottom of the case, he saw a ragged grey file that looked rather unlike the others, stuck to the back of another file with water. Peeling it free, he flipped it open in front of him. A missing person’s file, from 1902? He hadn’t even been an Auror yet. What the hell was this doing here?

_ Missing Person Report _

_Ms. Caroline Blanche_

_DOB: 10/29/1871_

_Occupation: Department of Necessary No-Maj Relations, MACUSA_

_Wand: 11 ½ inches willow, supple, unicorn hair_

The information on its own was not at all striking. What _was_ striking was the headshot pasted to the file, depicting the missing woman. The sad eyes and bow lips—she looked just like him, down to the same dark hair and even a straight fringe, though her hair was long and braided around the back of her head. Percival didn’t even wonder “what if?”.

He knew he was looking at Credence’s mother.


	6. Holding Only Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a title drop and it's the longest so far! Wow, I sure hope that doesn't mean anything sinister. ;)  
> Thanks for sticking with me, everyone! <3

_In the days of long ago, Mother sang to me_  
_Just a song so soft and low, an old sweet melody_  
_It wasn't a classic opera so grand,_  
_A sweet simple tune you could all understand:_  
_“Rock-a-bye baby on the tree-top”_  
_Seemed to make me cry._  
_Still I hear it soft and low, My Mother's Lullaby_  
(E.H. Pfeiffer, 1917)

Credence never talked about his family, so Percival didn’t know anything about them outside of what had been considered common knowledge about the Second Salemers. Mary-Lou Barebone was a dangerous zealot with Scourer ancestry, unmarried, but with three adopted children. The church dispensed food to street urchins but also put them to work delivering propaganda in the form of fliers and posters, and the group’s followers liked to hold creepy rallies in the streets. Percival could remember them faintly; they’d had Aurors keeping tabs on the family for a long time, especially when the group had started to gain traction in the past few years.

Still, it was one thing to know of the group theoretically, and another to consider what it must have been like to live with them. He supposed it wasn’t at all surprising that Credence was an Obscurial; but then, the most shocking thing about that was the fact that he had survived more than twice as long as any other Obscurial currently known of. Percival remembered one detail from Tina’s testimony and from Credence’s own: his mother had beaten him. Not that Percival approved of any sort of parental abuse, but this particularly angered him because it completely explained Credence’s incredibly deferential personality. What might he have been if he’d simply been raised by a family that loved him?

What might he have been, Percival wondered, if he’d been raised by Caroline Blanche? And _why_ wasn’t he?

He stood outside the guest room for a long time, holding the file in his hand. It was something Credence needed to see, but it did occur to him that showing him might do more harm than good. Eventually, Credence pre-empted him and emerged from the guest room before he could knock, seeming surprised to see him standing in the hallway.

“Oh. Hello?”

He’d put on his old jacket over the shirt Percival had lent him—Claudius appeared to have taken a nap on it first, as it was covered in silver hairs. Not for the first time, Percival seriously considered getting his measurements taken so they could get rid of his terrible clothes.

“Hello.” His hand clenched on the file. “Sleep well?”

“I think…” Credence trailed off. “What time is it?”

Percival turned his head to look at the clock hanging near the door to the living room. (It was actually a No-Maj clock—it was surprisingly difficult to find a wizard clock that didn’t have some unnecessary extra feature.) “Nine. You were already asleep when I got back yesterday, so…”

“Oh… I’m sorry.” He fidgeted in place. “I’m just… so tired.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Percival cleared his throat. “It’s fine.”

Credence looked at him patiently, waiting for him to continue. Percival actually saw his eyes fix curiously on the file in his hand, but he almost immediately looked away without asking about it.

“It’s an old case file I was reading,” he volunteered. “There was something I wanted to show you.”

“There was?”

“Yes, but…” Percival motioned through to the lounge. “I think you should sit down.”

Though he looked puzzled, Credence didn’t question it and walked into the lounge at his heels. By this point, the file felt as if it were burning holes in Percival’s hand. Credence was staring at it again.

Percival waited until he was sitting, and flipped the file open without showing it to him just yet.

“Now,” he said, “This isn’t confirmation of… anything. I don’t want you to panic or get overly excited, I…”

Credence’s eyes were wide as saucers. Percival began to feel a little guilty for psyching him out.

“You know what? Here.”

He placed the file in Credence’s lap and sank down in the armchair across from him.

There was no dramatic, immediate response. Percival wasn’t sure what he’d expected—for all he knew, Credence had never known his mother. For that matter, no matter how sure he’d been, there was no certainty that Caroline Blanche _was_ Credence’s mother; it could be a complete coincidence.

Credence’s eyes scanned over the file. He swallowed and reached out to touch the very corner of the photograph, as if afraid to disturb the faintly moving figure. He was very quiet. As Graves watched him, he closed his eyes and set the file down on the coffee table.

“I’ve never met her,” he said at last, very softly.

“Of course. I didn’t expect—” In spite of himself, Percival felt his ears flush with embarrassment, and he turned his face away. “I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, then he felt Credence’s hand on his arm, warmer than he remembered. “It’s all right. Thank you.”

For a moment his mind went white and he didn’t know what to do. Finally he smiled very slightly and patted the back of Credence’s hand. “Well, I thought you should know.”

Credence smiled back, then drew away and picked up the file again. This time he frowned. “It says they didn’t find her.”

“No,” said Percival. “Seems to have been misfiled; it was with some of the closed cases, but it’s cold.”

At that Credence just stared at him. “It’s…?”

“It means they never solved it.” Sometimes Percival wondered if Credence had lived under a rock before he’d met him; then he would realise that, actually, his living situation had been a lot worse. “There’s almost no evidence in that file. It’s actually very unusual—there are a lot of ways to trace missing witches and wizards, especially government employees.”

“She worked for the government?” Credence asked.

Percival shrugged one shoulder. “Well, used to. That department doesn’t even exist any more; it merged with the Department of No-Maj Misinformation in 1910.”

“Why?”

“There were some incidents. It’s complicated; you’re probably not interested.”

“Yes, I am.” Credence leaned forward, and Percival himself straightened up. “I’d—I’d like to hear, sir.”

“Please don’t call me… never mind.” He shook his head and carried on. “I’d only just started working for MACUSA at the time, but from what I remember, a lot of the people working in that department started to overstep. They wanted to broaden the definition of ‘necessary relations’ with the non-magical world—a lot of them started making waves, people got scared…”

To his credit, Credence didn’t ask why. Percival supposed someone from a family of neo-witch hunters already had the context.

“There was a big incident where it turned out the Head of Department had fallen in love with a non-wizard. He wanted to marry her, which is obviously not allowed; so, he tried to start a movement to change the law, had his department protest… it was a big scandal.” What had ended it? He’d been so focussed on his Auror training at the time that he couldn’t remember, but then it occurred to him. “In the end the former President, Fontaine, came out and completely ridiculed them in the press. He was incredibly well-regarded—they didn’t have a chance. By the time it blew over, half the department had lost their jobs, so it was easier to reassign the rest of them and have the department merge.”

“What happened to the man who wanted to get married?”

“Well… he tried to bring the woman into headquarters. They convicted him for attempting to expose the magical world.”

“So he went to jail?”

Percival averted his eyes. “No, Credence. He didn’t go to jail.”

There was a long silence. Credence bowed his head a little. “That’s… sad.”

Percival bristled. “It _would_ be sad, if he hadn’t been putting a lot of innocent people at risk for an incredibly selfish reason.”

“But you can make people forget with magic, can’t you?” said Credence. Then he paused, and a dark cloud seemed to come over him. “That’s why nobody remembers that night. And everything looks normal.”

“I would assume so.” If he’d been part of any of it, Percival supposed that would be more shocking. There was a tiny, selfish part of him that was almost glad he hadn’t been involved with the clean-up efforts for such a massive incident.

“Sometimes…”

“Yes?”

Suddenly Credence trembled and caved in on himself, shoulders hunching. “I’m the only one who remembers, and I don’t even remember it that well. So sometimes… sometimes I think maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I’m just…”

“It _did_ happen,” Percival said immediately. “A lot of people saw it, and there’s a whole team of people who talk about it every day. They all remember, and they won’t rest until they find out why it happened.”

“Oh,” said Credence, and promptly started crying.

 _Shit,_ thought Percival ineloquently. He’d reacted out of a strange, protective instinct to validate Credence—in retrospect, he supposed he’d sounded a little threatening. “What I meant was—you see—”

Percival tried to think of the times in his life when he had comforted someone or been comforted, but it was an extremely short list. Suddenly to the top of his mind floated Seraphina’s face in 1922—she hadn’t said anything at all, and even as he’d tried to hide the fact that he’d been crying she had simply sighed and pulled him against her.

He got out of his chair, moved over onto the couch with Credence and put his hand on the back of his neck, pulling him out of the ball he’d begun to curl into and against his shoulder. Credence was so shocked that he went silent almost instantly.

 _Good?_ Now that he had him here, though, Percival wasn’t actually sure what to do with him. He started to lift his hand away, but when Credence whimpered softly he put it back. His other arm stayed stiffly at his side.

What had Seraphina said that had made him calm down? Oh, right—nothing. So why had it been calming to have her there? Credence suddenly shifted and put one arm around him, hand resting loosely on his shoulder, and he understood: it was because he had trusted her. Credence _trusted_ him. Just a few days ago, he had been accepting of the fact that Credence _didn’t_ trust him—how could he? But to realise that he did, even if it was just a little more than the day before, suddenly made him smile.

They sat there quietly for a while, then Credence straightened up slowly, drying his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Percival patted him on the shoulder tentatively, although he didn’t feel quite as uncomfortable as he thought he might.

“I… thanks,” said Credence, at which Percival looked away again and mumbled his response. Credence laughed, his eyes suddenly bright—but when Percival blinked at him in surprise (normally, being laughed at annoyed him) he looked apologetic again. “Oh. Sorry, I—”

“No,” Percival cut him off. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Stop apologising.”

“Sorry,” said Credence automatically, then caught himself with a nervous laugh. “I mean…”

Percival just shook his head and smiled thinly. “We’ll work on it.”

Credence smiled back—then he leaned over and picked up the file from the table again.

“So…” He opened it up to the photo again. “You think this is my real mother, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure,” Percival admitted. “There’s no way to prove it. But she looks a lot like you, and I think the timeline matches up; when were you born?”

Credence looked as if he had to think about it. Eventually: “1903?”

“The year after she went missing,” Percival pointed out. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“It could be,” said Credence, not daring to get his hopes up. “It says ‘Ms.’—was she even married?”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Percival flipped to the next page. “Look: it says she was reported missing by her sister, and they’ve the same surname; besides, you’d think a husband would be listed with the contact information… but…”

“I suppose…” Credence looked hesitant to continue, as if he were about to say something extremely offensive. “She wouldn’t _have_ to be married.”

“No,” said Percival, “but the real question is—”

“Why didn’t she want me?” He sounded sad at first—then suddenly, angry. “Or why did she give me to that—”

He cut himself off. Percival put his hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension there; and he could practically feel it as Credence’s anger rose and was forced under again before it could quite manifest. How long had he been doing that, Percival wondered? It must have been forever.

“Do you want to know?” he asked him, gently.

Credence’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.

“Then we’ll find out.” He stood up right away, and offered Credence his hand to get up. “Where do you want to start?”

Taking his hand, Credence pulled himself upright. His appearance hadn’t changed, but to Percival he already looked different; having a purpose suited him.

“I just thought of something, but—” He hesitated. “I’m not sure if we can. Or should.”

“And?” Percival had bent the rules more in the last two weeks than he had in most of his life. At this point, what did it matter? “Go on.”

“Well, I thought… maybe…” Though Credence still had the same resolution about him he had a few moments ago, he did look a little queasy. “Ma said she knew her, so maybe…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Percival didn’t need him to. “You think we should look at the church?”

Credence nodded mutely. Percival took a moment to consider this; as he understood, the church had been cordoned off since the Obscurus attack, covered in powerful charms to deter No-Majs from visiting it. This meant that it was highly likely to be under Auror supervision, and he was far too distinctive at this point to wander in unnoticed.

“I’m not sure about that, Credence,” he conceded. “It might be a long shot.”

At this Credence paused. Then he said, “If we go through the alleys behind the church, nobody will see us go in. At night you can’t even see into them from the street. A-and once we’re inside, I would know where to go. We can do it.”

Sometimes Percival had to wonder—a lot of the facts pointed to Credence being a hell of a lot more capable and conniving than he came off. When one thought about it, he had assisted with an evil wizarding plot under the nose of the most anti-magic family in New York and would have been successful if he or Grindelwald had known what they were _actually_ looking for. Certainly nobody would have noticed him on either side if it hadn’t been for the outburst that destroyed the church and killed the rest of the Barebone family; the most offensive thing he’d ever done until that point was be accidentally associated with Tina Goldstein after she’d lost her cool. Still, Credence’s moral capacity wasn’t the issue right now.

“I’m more concerned about the wards,” Percival said. “MACUSA will have magical wards set up to stop anyone from investigating or going inside—and probably to alert them if anyone goes in. If they detect my wand…”

He left it hanging, but Credence jumped on the end of his thought. “What if you didn’t take it into the church? You could hide it nearby, or…”

“That wouldn’t work.” Stunned as he was with Credence’s initiative, there were other things to consider. “If there was a barrier, we’d have to take it down, and they could trace that to my wand if they examined it. It’d be far too risky.”

“Well…” Credence looked as if he were running out of ideas. “We don’t _know_ there’s a barrier…”

Percival couldn’t help but laugh. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little relentless?”

“No…” At this, Credence blushed profusely and started to turn his head again. “I—I just think we should try. At least.”

The truth was that Percival could only continue to think of the multitude of ways this might fail. However, he’d been the one to plant the idea in Credence’s head, and it was the most vitality that he’d shown since he’d come crashing into Percival’s life… a sickening coldness closed around his stomach again as he remembered Credence’s pale hand falling through him. However well he seemed now, Credence was still technically _dying_. Would it really hurt to do this one thing he wanted—the _only_ thing he’d ever really asked of him?

Percival almost laughed at himself. How long had this been going on? “All right. We can try. But we’ll wait until it gets dark.”

A part of him almost hoped Credence would change his mind or forget about it—but that night as he contemplated heading up to his study after dinner, he saw him lingering by the front door like a dog waiting to be taken for a walk.

Sometimes he really hated being a man of his word.

“Ready?” It had been a long time since he’d Apparated with anyone else. Since becoming Head of the Department he didn’t do as much field work as before that might occasionally require him to transport suspects. (Although, Dahlia had often mysteriously forgotten how to Apparate when she wanted him to carry her.)

Credence nodded. Percival took him by the arm, briefly lamented his life choices, and Apparated out of the lit hallway and into a dim, dusty New York alleyway. As Credence had said, it was extremely dark—so much so that Percival, who was quite dizzy, wasn’t entirely sure he had put them in the right place. When he put his hand against the nearest building to steady himself, Credence broke away from his side and crept down to the end of the alleyway, peering around the corner. After a moment he came back.

“We’re a block away,” he said, frowning. “Did you mean to do that?”

“I know the church, but I can’t say I’m familiar with the—” Percival gestured around them crossly. “—seedy back alleys. I have to be able to picture the place I’m going.”

As he sank against the wall again, Credence looked him over anxiously. “Are—are you all right?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped. When Credence cringed, he sighed and straightened up again. “Sorry. Look, really, I’ll be all right—we need to get going.”

The dizziness subsided as he fell into step beside Credence. The streets were glistening with fallen rain, dotted with puddles that looked inky black in the evening light; it was very quiet. They seemed to be the only people out and about, which only made Percival more concerned.

Beside him Credence was quiet and focussed, leading them forward and between a pair of apartment buildings to a tight alleyway that peered out at the ruins of the church. Up closer, Percival could see that there was surprisingly little in the way of visible protection—but he put his arm across Credence’s chest to keep him from walking ahead of him.

“Careful,” he said. “Some protective spells sound an alarm or even immobilise you. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

Credence nodded, but looked faint; Percival supposed it would be unnerving for him to be back here, even if it had been his idea. He lay his free hand on his shoulder as he lifted his wand hand and whispered, “ _Revelio Tutamen_.”

A slight shimmer appeared around the church as the shield charm was revealed—Percival supposed there was more to the defences, but his spell didn’t seem to have uncovered them all. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising, considering how out of practise he was, but still… he had a bad feeling about all of this.

“Stay here,” he told Credence, and stepped forward, moving up and down the barrier with his wand raised, murmuring counter-spells.

If anyone were to know about this, he could forget about having his job back—but strangely that wasn’t what was distracting him from casting. There was a horrible, numb feeling at the back of his skull, as if he were pulling from a void.

_You won’t feel a thing._

Why was he telling himself that?

_And if you do, it doesn’t matter._

Was it even him who had said that?

_You won’t remember it._

There was a small, soft clatter before blackness bloomed behind his eyes. He saw flashes of things: the roof of a dark room, the door melting into the wall, reappearing. Being completely still. His own face leaning over him but not his face, not _his_ face—

“Mr. Graves!” He heard Credence move, but didn’t see him until he was right on top of him, reaching for his arms.

“Don’t call me that,” he mumbled.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“ _Quiet_ ,” he told him, looking out warily at the street. It looked a little further away than before. “Stay behind me, I’m almost done.”

“ _No_ ,” said Credence, firmly.

Shocked, Percival blinked up at him. At that point he realised he was on the ground, kneeling on the wet paving stones with his wand lying uselessly on the ground beside him. He supposed that had been the sound he’d heard. “I… look, I only need a moment… let me…”

“It’s all right,” said Credence, handing him his wand and putting out his arm to help him up. “We can just go. I—I told you it might not be a good idea and…”

Percival groaned as he got to his feet. “I need to at least recast the protection spells.”

Stepping away from his side, Credence nodded. Percival raised his wand and—nothing happened. He repeated the incantation—nothing. He tried another—nothing. When all else failed, he tried to simply cast sparks—but his wand just lay there in his hand, no more useful than an ordinary stick. He stared at it.

“What’s wrong?” asked Credence, stepping in between him and the barrier.

“Did something happen to my wand?” Percival asked, not tearing his eyes away from it.

Credence frowned. “No? You… you just dropped it when you fell down.”

He turned it over anxiously, looking for cracks and damage. “You didn’t see anything? Sparks? It didn’t make a sound or…?”

“I… no, it just fell. I don’t remember anything.”

As they spoke, Credence had begun to drift back toward the barrier. Percival opened his mouth to warn him, but instead it simply hung open.

“Mr. Graves?”

“Credence,” he said, stepping back, “do you know what you’re doing?”

“What?” Credence turned his head, then startled. The barrier behind him was melting wherever he touched it, and as he noticed a flare of black smoke spiked out around him and crawled over the barrier ravenously. “Mr. Graves, I’m not doing that, I swear I—”

“Shh!” Percival couldn’t help but turn his head anxiously—at any second he felt one of the Aurors was sure to Apparate behind them. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just, easy…”

“I-I don’t know how to make it stop!” The black mass was starting to bubble through his clothes and skin. “I’m sorry, I’m trying—”

Percival had a sudden, insane thought. “Stop trying!”

Wide-eyed, Credence looked at him. “What?”

Looking up at the barrier again, Percival could see the black smoke had almost completely covered the shield. Maybe… “Your Obscurus, it’s—it’s _eating_ the protection enchantments. Do you see?”

“No,” Credence half-sobbed. “I can’t see, Mr. Graves, I can’t—”

“I _can_. I can see. You’re doing…” Percival swallowed as the Obscurus started to curl tighter around the vanishing shield charm with a low growl. “…great.”

Almost entirely obscured, Percival could barely see Credence start to cover his face with his hands, shaking. But his Obscurus was shrinking again, unravelling from around the church and beginning to creep back inside him.

“See? You can do it,” he said, more confidently. “You can _control_ it, Credence.”

Suddenly the Obscurus _rushed_ him—crashing toward him all at once in a roaring wave of blackness. Percival braced, his arms crossed in front of him with his useless wand raised… and then it stopped, inches from his face, hanging in the air around him like it had been frozen solid.

He closed his eyes, waiting for it to come down on him.

Then Credence said, very tentatively, “Percival?”

He opened his eyes. The smoke was gone, and Credence was standing a few feet away, wobbling. Without thinking, Percival went to keep him upright, setting his hands on his shoulders. “Yes?”

“Did I do it?” he asked, eyes drooping closed.

Percival looked past him. The shield was gone, and the Obscurus seemed to have left a crack down the side of one of the surrounding buildings, but otherwise…

“Looks like you did. But if it’s too much…”

“No.” Credence shook his head. “I can.”

What a strange pair they were, Percival thought as they headed for the door. A dishonoured Auror and an adult Obscurial, solving mysteries together. Maybe one day someone would write a serial about this—it was insane enough that nobody would ever imagine any of it was true. If so, he hoped they left out all the parts where he almost blacked out. They could make him a bit taller, even.

The church was more of a mess when they entered than he imagined it had been when they arrived; he suspected some of the charms had been inside, preserving details of the scene. There was a small marker placed on the floor beneath the landing, and another near a pile of rubble. Credence flinched as they passed them, and Percival didn’t need to ask what had been there. Otherwise, there seemed to be very little in the church: most of it appeared to have been removed or simply destroyed.

“What exactly is it you think we’ll find?” Percival asked Credence, who was sagging against his side slightly.

“I think…” He coughed. “If anyone looked here, I don’t think they found out how to get into Ma’s safe. It was a secret.”

“Well, the investigators would have been able to open it with magic.”

Credence shook his head. “Ma always said that… that you had to think of problems that magic couldn’t solve. Things that only people could know.”

He went to the side of the staircase and started to feel along the wooden panels. It dawned on Percival as he finally tapped on a hollow one, and he groaned. “ _Really_? I _always_ tell them to check for these things… damn amateurs…”

Kneeing down, Credence hooked his fingers under one of the panels and pulled it up—it wobbled and he caught it clumsily, setting it down against the side of the stairs.

“She has a diary that she writes in every week,” he said. “I’ve seen her do it since I was little. And she saves _everything_ —every leaflet design, every photo, the drafts for her book…”

“She wrote a book?”

“Not a very popular book,” Credence admitted. “But I bet—but I bet she would have records in here. Records from 1902.”

Percival knelt down beside him and peered into the dark space with him.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he said, pointing his wand. Once more, nothing happened. Credence gave him a puzzled look. “It was worth a try.”

Feeling in front of him with his hands, Credence leaned over so his entire torso was in the space under the stairs. Finally he sat up, then pulled himself over entirely into the gap. “I think it’s here. I can’t see the lock.”

Casting another frustrated glance at his wand, Percival finally tucked it away in his pocket and tapped Credence on the back. “I’ll try to find something.”

This was easier said than done with the church in its dilapidated condition, especially in the dark—the pale moonlight could barely peek through the dusty windows. He dug under some rubble to get at what looked like the remains of a sewing table, then rummaged fruitlessly under the kitchen counter. Finally, he called out to Credence. “Where did you keep the matches?”

The reply was instant. “In the desk in the back—second drawer.”

He found them, and a small bundle of candles next to them tied up with string. Percival lit one (which might have taken a few seconds longer than might have perhaps been necessary—he couldn’t remember _ever_ having to start a fire without magic) and ducked into the space under the stairs with Credence.

“Cozy,” he remarked as he knelt beside him, holding up the candle so that they could see. In spite of how dusty it was, the safe appeared to be one of the newer and more expensive-looking items he’d seen in the Barebone house. It would have almost reached his hip if he’d been standing, and looked extremely sturdy; he supposed it was one place to store a diary.

In the candlelight, Credence looked a little sickly, but with the light shining on the safe he began to meddle with the combination lock. Occasionally he’d mumble something about the numbers he was trying (“Ma’s birthday”, “the first witch trial in Salem”, “my birthday—no, never mind…”) before moving onto the next. Percival’s wand-hand itched; this could have been over so much faster. He’d been feeling drained since the two of them had Apparated, and something seemed to have happened to his wand, but he _should_ be able to manage a basic Unlocking Charm without it. Finally, he nudged Credence by the shoulder and passed him the candle.

“Let me see what I can do.”

“All right.”

Truthfully, he didn’t expect it to work—he hadn’t been able to cast without his wand since he’d gotten it back, although he had been able to perform a few simple spells nonverbally—but in spite of this he found himself able to concentrate at once, and a moment later the dial of the combination lock began to spin on its own, finally coming to a stop with a faint ‘click’.

The two of them looked at each other excitedly, and Percival reached forward to tug the door open, with Credence hovering over his shoulder anxiously.

There was a _lot_ in the safe; more than Percival had expected and much of which he was sure would not be useful. Helpfully, it did at least seem to have been arranged in some sort of order. Amidst apparently confiscated items of interest were several wands which Percival could tell at a glance were no more than No-Maj toys, but next to them was a small cylinder which he highly suspected to be a lunascope, and another item that looked very much like a broken admonitor bracelet. Stacked on a small shelf at the top, he could see a handful of bound books, some with titles he recognised (among them _Discourse on Witchcraft_ by Cotton Mather; _A Guide to Grand-Jury Men_ by Richard Bernard; and, of course, the _Malleus Maleficarum_ ) and a few he didn’t. The titles he didn’t recognise included the book by Mary-Lou, and two others by an “E.C. Barebone”. He pulled one out—it was such an old book that the binding was holding together very poorly, and in the candlelight just made out a much more recent-looking leaflet that had been tucked into one of the pages. As he was contemplating this, Credence nudged past him and dug into the bottom shelf of the safe, wax from the candle dripping dangerously.

“Here,” said Percival, and took the candle off him so he could search with both hands. Credence pulled out the top book and flipped to the latest entry—October, 1926. He pulled out the next—1924—the next—1921—and kept tearing through the pile until he found a journal dating all the way back to 1903.

The wind groaned through one of the holes in the roof and the church creaked. Consciously, Percival squeezed Credence’s shoulder. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

But Credence hesitated. “There might be more.”

“I know, but we’re almost out of candle.” Percival showed him his wax-covered hand. “Take what you can and lock up the rest. If we have to, we’ll come back.”

He neglected to tell Credence that he wasn’t sure how possible that would be—once MACUSA realised the protective charms had been taken down, this place would be crawling.

“Do you promise?”

Sometimes Credence would look at him in such a way that Percival knew that the aim of his question wasn’t necessarily the answer; it was as if he wanted to test Percival's willingness to lie to him. In those moments Percival would see how truly desperate he had been. He must have known in some way that the Percival Graves who had promised to whisk him away was far too good to be true; but he had wanted to believe more than anything, and what was there to lose?

Percival saw him in two lights at once: as the downtrodden victim who had had no choice but to cling to lies; and the determined survivor who had been cunning and patient and, yes, relentless, in his pursuit of freedom. Now that he knew what it was like to be powerless, to return to an outsider’s life where nothing was his, he wondered: was he as brave as Credence had been?

“I…” Finally, he took Credence’s arm and stared at him in the flickering candlelight. Credence tensed, but didn’t flinch away. “All right—I can’t promise that. But I promise to try.”

Credence leaned slightly deeper into his touch. “Thank you.”

By this point, however, the candle was all but dripping through his fingers, the flame beginning to sputter. Percival nodded at the safe. “Close it. Let’s get home and find out what your mother knew.”

They locked the safe and closed up the panel behind them. As they stepped back out into the church, Percival snuffed out the remains of the candle, kicked it under the rubble and brushed dust off his overcoat to little avail. Credence didn’t do the same—after a moment, Percival couldn’t stand to look at him and picked a spiderweb off his coat.

“Oh. I didn’t see—thank you.”

Percival smiled, in spite of himself. “Are you ready, then? Here, give me your books.”

In the end it was a stack of just three—two of Mary-Lou’s journals, and the book by E.C. Barebone that Percival had picked up. He tucked them under one arm and offered the other to Credence, who took it.

“Yes.”

It took just a moment. Percival looked over at him and saw that he was smiling. He smiled back, and Apparated.

Just a second too late he realised that he could suddenly see the railing through the top of Credence’s head—just a second too late he realised that the warmth against his side was _gone_ , and that once again Credence had melted through him as easily as if he had been holding only air. Time did not slow dramatically, as he had thought it might in such a moment, but in the split second before he blinked out of the church and into the street outside his house, he saw Credence’s expression change: _why?_ He had no way of knowing if Credence had seen his shock, or the lurch of his body as he tried to reach back for him, or if he knew anything at all but that he had been abandoned. Again.

He tried to Apparate back to the church, but another wave of dizziness hit him and instead he stuttered forward a few feet on the pavement. He tried again and moved barely an inch. This wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt—his magic wasn’t just disobeying him, it was as if it had been completely drained. With a sick jolt he remembered the same sick feeling he’d had the first time he Apparated with Credence beside him; the Obscurus crawling hungrily over the magical barrier; Credence picking up his wand and handing it back. _What if_ …?

None of it mattered if Credence was alone in the church, believing Percival had taken his proof and left him to rot. Percival thought about his timid smile, his arm in his; the way he said his name. _His_ name.

Stumbling against the gate, he clutched the books against his side and beat his fist against one of the posts. This had already gone too far. From here, it could only come crashing down.


	7. Carrie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different! Two new POVs in this chapter, and we'll be back to Percival next time.  
> Mary-Lou is a weird character whose voice is kind of difficult to nail, but I had a surprising amount of fun writing her. Enjoy a good old-fashioned flashback sequence.
> 
> If anyone was wondering, there's no real significance to the lyrics at the beginning of each chapter except for that I really like old music--[this one's actually a real banger](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUeN2vYbSMs).
> 
> EDIT: I was remiss in not adding this when I originally posted it, but this chapter contains brief, non-explicit mentions of sexual assault.

_I'll be there, Mary dear, I'll be there_  
_When the fragrance of the roses fills the air_  
_'Neath that old tree grand and tall_  
_When the leaves begin to fall,_  
_I'll be there, yes, I'll be there, sweet Mary dear._  
(Andrew B. Sterling, 1902)

**NEW SALEM PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY, 1902**

_ February 21st _

_We have two new volunteers at the church this week; Ms. Eve Tipton and Miss Caroline Blanche._

_Ms. Tipton is a member of our sister group in DC. Perhaps it would be fairer to say it is an estranged sister group; we haven’t had very much to do with one another in some time, another unfortunate byproduct of my great-grandfather’s poor judgment back in ’24. How strange to think that a simple misunderstanding could persist for so long! Still, this contact with the DC branch is encouraging. If we were able to pool our knowledge and resources with other chapters more frequently, I am sure we would make a great deal of headway in the exposure and eradication of the dark forces that plague our great country. I have been certain for a long time that New York has been the home of something incredibly sinister. If I can convince Tipton to vouch for us back home, that would be a great opportunity for the Society._

_Miss Blanche, on the other hand, is a bit of an odd duck. When she attended her first meeting she did not seem to fully understand our message—although, in fairness, it is a lot to swallow!—however she approached me afterwards to ask if there were anything she could do to help. She asked what kind of charitable work the Society was doing, and had the novel idea of using our venue (the Old Church) as a makeshift soup kitchen to help the community. She is a dear woman, if a little naïve._

_I was unsure if this would be the best use of our limited funds—however, Ms. Tipton loved the idea and suggested we start straight away. She has contacted her brother-in-law, who is local, to assist with the necessary refurbishments. All in the name of progress, I suppose!_

__

_ March 30th _

_Carrie was so excited when the kitchen was finished today, and ran out into the street with a bell to usher in all of the street urchins. While she and Ms. Tipton were serving soup, I handed out leaflets for the children to distribute. Since they wander to-and-fro about the city, and rarely light in the same place for too long, it’s an effective way of spreading our message throughout the city. Besides, once they know that the church is a safe place to return for food, we will have a guaranteed supply of volunteers!_

_Some of the older children have asked if there is other work they could do in exchange for money or even lodgings, but we haven’t the resources at this time to offer it. Carrie thought that we might be able to modify some of the storage rooms upstairs into temporary lodgings for volunteers. It’s a nice thought, but as I am the only one living in the church since Pa died—no thank you! Still, I told her I would think about it instead of simply saying no. She can be rather soft, but I am very fond of Carrie. Perhaps she thinks I haven’t noticed that she isn’t quite as enthusiastic about our message as some of the others—not so. But I can tell she is the sort of woman who shows her dedication in different ways. Since she began to visit the church, she spends more and more of her free time here; it seems to offer her some sort of relief from her day-job._

_Carrie is staying here tonight, in the guest room. It will be nice to have someone else to spend the weekend with—Ms. Tipton has been staying in Pa’s old bedroom while she’s in New York, but she isn’t much for conversation outside of work._

_ April 5th _

_Ms. Tipton left yesterday—good riddance! She said the Society here was in even worse shape than she had suspected, that we were jumping at shadows and that my “preying” on the street urchins to deliver propaganda was the final straw. If she is drawing comparisons between this and what Eustace Barebone did to those children in the 20s, she must be completely delusional. I suspect Ma had something to do with this; she dropped by the church the other day when we were serving soup, and left as soon as I saw her. We haven’t spoken since she abandoned me and Pa; goodness knows what she was up to._

_Carrie must have showed up the very second Tipton left—that girl has the Lord’s own timing!—and she was livid when she heard. She told me I mustn’t lose hope; that I was doing a good thing for the community, and maybe it would be best to concentrate on that for a while. Then she kept me company all night, chatting about everything and nothing._

_Perhaps she’s right. We can still do a lot of good here in New York, although I have to admit I have seen and heard very little of the magical underworld recently. Perhaps our recent demonstrations have intimidated our enemies into laying low; the truth is a powerful weapon, and it’s on our side!_

_It was the strangest thing, though; I held a meeting with the other volunteers this morning to remind them to stay vigilant, and Carrie suddenly excused herself and went home. I hope she isn’t unwell._

_ June 20th _

_Carrie has been showing up to meetings late and leaving early, and seems to be—to put it kindly—in a bit of a state. The other volunteers are giving her a wide berth, but it may be just as well because she has been terribly sensitive, and nobody seems to be able to speak to her without upsetting her—even me! This really is incredibly strange. She’s always had such a gift with people, especially children; now she refuses to work in the soup kitchen at all, and can’t be around the church at all when the orphans are here._

_I even considered putting a stop to the soup kitchen for a while just to see if she would come back—but it really is working for us, and Carrie loved the idea of this kitchen. I wish she would just tell me what’s going on. Then I could help!_

_Haven’t heard anything from DC since that cow, Tipton, left. Too bad for them; I was clearing through Pa’s things and found a_ lot _of information my great-grandfather had stored away. I haven’t been able to go through all of it yet, but I can understand why he didn’t make it public straight away—it is too much for most. I’ve been working on my own manuscript, and perhaps once my publication paves the way I will be able to share what he learned. Some of his work can never be made public—it would look very bad for us. I’ve considered destroying it, but I have the strangest feeling it may be useful someday. A lot of great causes have made sacrifices; perhaps one day the world will understand that._

_ August 1st _

_Writing this down feels wrong, as if I am betraying her confidence; I swore I would tell nobody. Then again, this diary is only for my own reference, and there will be no need to share this part when I eventually write my memoirs._

_I hadn’t seen Carrie since the 22 nd but all of a sudden she came knocking on the door in the middle of the night, and she looked terrible. She had clearly been crying and when I let her in she almost collapsed in my arms. She wasn’t at all the cheerful woman I remember—it was as if the life had been completely sucked out of her._

_Carrie confided in me something terrible: that her male superior has been harassing her at work for months now, and recently she learned that she was with child as a result. She has nowhere to turn and no means of raising the child alone, but she cannot bring herself to do the unthinkable. Feeling she had no option, she went to her superior and told him what she knew. He told her to get rid of the child, or he would “get rid” of her._

_She refuses to tell me his name, but says he is too powerful and influential for her to cross. She cannot tell her family, and she has no husband to help her save face by raising the child as his own—so, she left her job and came here, saying it was the only place she was sure nobody would find her._

_I am at a loss. Who could do this to Carrie? She is perhaps a better woman than any I have ever met, and I would be shocked to find she had wronged anyone in her life. Of course, I immediately made up the bed in Pa’s room and told her to stay as long as she liked. If that should mean forever, then so be it; I can think of far worse people to share the church and this mission with._

_Carrie keeps saying over and over that she doesn’t deserve my kindness, and that if I knew how terrible she really was, I would never trust her. To this I could only tell her, “I know exactly who you are: my friend.”_

 

_ November 5th _

_There has been little time for writing. Not only has the Society been very busy lately, but Carrie is now almost five months pregnant. After all of this, she feels more like a sister to me than a friend, so in a way I find myself starting to look forward to having a baby around. We have been doing a little shopping, which seems to be difficult for her… but I am trying to show her that in spite of what has happened to her, the future needn’t be so dark._

_There is a sort of despondence about her that wasn’t there before, and I think it will be a while before she is back to her usual self. Perhaps I am being unfair; after all, I cannot imagine being in her situation. (In all honesty, I would never want to.) I’m more concerned that she hasn’t been eating well or taking care of herself as she should—I do try to remind her, but I am nobody’s mother!_

_I do wonder, though, as this unfolds around me: what sort of a mother would I be? My relationship with my own mother was fraught; she abandoned me and Pa when I was sixteen, along with our cause, for which I never forgave her. I have no desire to be a wife; I dislike how even modern women appear to relinquish any form of independence in tying themselves to a man, and frankly cannot afford to be slowed down. A husband who would try to speak for me, or in any way interfere with the extremely important work I do, would be a hindrance at best. But more than that, I have never felt any desire for men at all—I cannot relate to other women when they gossip and titter, and this seems deeper to me than a simple lifestyle decision. Is there something wrong with me?_

_Whatever the case: I am nobody’s mother. But perhaps when Carrie’s child is born I will be a little like one, in lieu of other family. How inspiring, to think that two empowered, independent women could raise a child together without regard for our society’s restrictive standards! The NSPS women are trailblazers on many fronts, it seems._

_ December 31st _

_A very strange thing happened yesterday at one of the rallies; as we packed up our signs and left, a man began to follow us back to the church. When she noticed him Carrie began to panic, and it was all I could do to keep her calm as we took a detour through a department store to throw him off. We managed to lose him easily enough, but Carrie was positively terrified and would not sit down for the rest of the evening._

_All this stress surely cannot be good for the baby—but I want to know who that man was and why he frightened Carrie so. I asked if it was the superior she mentioned to me before and she said no, sounding truthful. When I pressed her further she clammed up and wouldn’t tell me any more._

_Later, she conceded to me that the man was a friend of the superior who harassed her, and she was concerned he had been sent to take some sort of action against her. I asked his name, and at first she could not remember; finally, she recalled that it was Wilbur Grimsditch._

_I thought that name sounded familiar, so I looked at some of Eustace Barebone’s records again. It so happens that Grimsditch is a family known to contain powerful witchcraft, dating back to the 1600s. According to Eustace’s studies, a man called Robert Grimsditch was responsible in the late 1690’s for attacking several of our kin, preventing them from assisting the authorities in bringing dangerous witches and wizards to justice. It is a distinctive enough surname that I do not feel it is a coincidence (though that is of course possible). All the same, if this is the case then I must warn Carrie as soon as possible that she is in danger of being targeted by dark forces—and find out a way to stop them._

 

_ January 15th _

_We saw Wilbur Grimsditch again last week but this time, I was prepared. I picked him out of the crowd and began to pepper him with questions about our cause—very politely, of course, but it clearly disturbed him and he became extremely defensive. It just goes to show that these villains know they are on the wrong side when confronted by those of righteous conviction. Finally, the coward excused himself and left._

_I felt even more certain in my theory and spoke to Carrie about it when I got home (she had been unwell that morning, so had stayed home at the church). She sounded upset, but not surprised. For the first time it occurred to me that she may know more about the forces plaguing our city than it originally seemed. Even if this is so, she is clearly not ready to talk about it yet—but I am in no rush. I will be on this crusade for truth for a very long time, after all!_

_Carrie didn’t want to talk about Grimsditch any more, and changed the subject to the baby (I think to placate me). She says she hasn’t been thinking of names, but that recently she has had the feeling it may be a boy. We talked for a while about that, and then went to sleep. I had a strange and vivid dream where Wilbur Grimsditch stood outside the church on a rainy night; but when I woke up, there was not a cloud in the sky. There is no need to put any stock in dreams anyway—that’s witches’ business if I ever heard it!_

_Though I still have a bad feeling, I’ll keep it to myself and not trouble Carrie; I am worried about how all of this stress may be affecting the baby._

_ February 22nd _

_It will not be long at all now before Carrie’s baby is born, and she has gone into a rather strange state where she appears very sickly, but acts as if everything is wonderful; and if I have the audacity to ask if she is all right, she gets a deer-in-the-headlights look and immediately looks away._

_No Grimsditch since I last confronted him in January, though I have been keeping an eye out in hopes of being able to gain more information—hopefully he learned his lesson._

_I had meant to write more today as I feel I have been neglecting to chronicle the marvellous work we have been doing these past few months, but Carrie just knocked on my door sounding anxious. I will go and put the poor dear at ease, and write again at a later date._

_ March 25th _

_Caroline died last month, the same day as my last entry… but not before I learned what a filthy, conniving little liar she was._

_Just as I had thought, she was ill during her pregnancy. The doctor I took her to that night suspected she may have long had some sort of heart condition but could not identify it. She delivered the baby early, and died a few hours later._

_Clearly she knew she was about to die, as she asked me straight away to take care of her son. Since at the time I considered her as close to me as flesh and blood, I told her “of course”. Then she looked at me tearfully and finally told me the truth._

_“Mary-Lou,” she said, “I know it is a great deal to ask. But is there anything, anything at all that would convince you to change your mind about magic?”_

_“Of course not. You know how dangerous magic can be—we have discussed this,” I replied. “Why would you ask that?”_

_“Because,” she continued, “if you are going to raise my son, then you must know what he will grow up to be.”_

_“What on earth do you mean?”_

_“His father is a wizard,” she said, and then: “and his mother is a witch.”_

_I felt as if the ground had been sucked from beneath me and that my heart sank into my stomach. I could not believe what I was hearing; so I said, quickly, “You are ill. You are saying things.”_

_She told me she was not. And then she told me what she had kept from me all this time—what she_ should _have told me all along—that she was not only a witch, but a criminal who had once worked for the magical_ government _. (I had no idea such a thing existed—this is even worse than I thought!) Just as I suspected, they have been spying on our group for some time (obviously feeling threatened), but Caroline decided that she would attempt to gain our trust, infiltrate the group, and slowly change us from within. She evidently believed that if she were to simply “show us kindness” we would see that we must be wrong about our entirely reasonable fears and concerns. How she thought this would hold up when we inevitably discovered her vile deception is beyond me._

 _When she fell out with her own kind, she saw fit to take advantage of us—of_ me _—even more by using the church as sanctuary, exposing us further to those who might do us harm. She swore that none of it had been malicious, that she truly saw me as a friend and sister… although, to be fair, with all the blubbering she was doing it was difficult to tell precisely what she was saying at this point._

_I have never felt such cold anger or hate, even when my mother left us. I felt sick. Betrayed._

_But unlike her, I am not a liar, and I had promised to look after her son. So I took him, and have been taking care of him ever since. He is a weak child, and may not last long; but if he does, then I have plans for ensuring he does not endanger anyone normal._

_My great-grandfather, Eustace Credence Barebone, was unfairly cut loose from the other chapters of the NSPS for an experiment he performed in the 1820’s. With help from a witch sympathetic to our cause, he obtained a number of magical children and performed tests to see if their magic could be suppressed or trained out of them. The results were not encouraging; however, none of these children were under the age of five. I believe that if this child can be raised from birth knowing the threat magic poses, they will be able to resist the temptation to use it. I will save him from the cruel fate his unnatural mother condemned him to. I will make him better._

_If he lives, I will call him Credence after my great-grandfather._

_If he dies, I suppose it will not make a difference; nobody missed Caroline when she was gone, either._

_Another thing: I see entries in my diaries about a person named Grimsditch, but have no actual recollection of the incidents involving him. I highly suspect dark magic was involved in this too, but they were not counting on me having records they could not tamper with. However, just to be safe, I will change the combination on the safe again._

_ April 13th _

_Credence is still here. Some of the other women in the group are completely infatuated with him and offer to take care of him from time to time; all offer their condolences for Caroline._

_“I know you were close,” they say. No! I only_ thought _we were close—if we were truly friends, close to sisters, why did she lie to me for so long? In the past witches and wizards have disclosed themselves to seekers of truth, recognising their powers as dangerous and worthy of concern, in order to help us expose more of their kind. Perish the thought, I grew up knowing that some of my very own ancestors had done just this—the Barebone family encouraged sympathetic magic users to marry into normal families in order to breed out their unnatural abilities. Generations later, you have descendants entirely free of these blemishes. If only the rest would see that it does not have to be this way!_

_Caroline could have told me what she was, and led me straight to their nest; we would be well on the path to progress. Why did she lie? What was there to gain? When I look back on our time together it makes less and less sense. Her idea for the soup kitchen? The hours she spent with us—cooking, cleaning, making leaflets—all a ruse? What about the time she spent here outside of “work”? Evenings alone with me, simply talking and laughing. Why do this if not to pry into the inner workings of our society… and yet she never did. When I would try to discuss work, she would always turn the conversation away and ask about me. What were my favourite foods? My hobbies? What was my family like? How did I grow up?_

_Thinking on it now, I cannot help but wonder what the purpose of it all was. To simply humiliate me?_

_When I left that night, she looked so small, so pale and wretched. So even witches can die of mundane things: childbirth, illness, injury. I thought about leaving her child for dead, too; I even made plans for it, several times. But what if someone else were to find it? What if someone were to try and raise that thing, not knowing what it would grow into? A pup is one thing until it grows into a wolf; too many would be fooled by the child’s seemingly mundane appearance._

_He is so normal and yet so abnormal. Sometimes I think he would be indistinguishable from any other infant—and yet already I see sparks of magic surrounding him. Creatures gather around his crib; last week I found mice sitting around it in a near perfect circle as if holding court, and birds from the outdoors often come to the upstairs window and perch on the sill, staring in at him (even owls—in daylight!). Sometimes when he does not wish to be bathed his skin repels water, and food he rejects sometimes flies off the spoon. If he becomes any stronger this will become unmanageable very quickly—it is difficult enough to keep these signs hidden from the rest of the group._

_I can’t tell them about Caroline. Not because I wish to protect her, but—shamefully—because it still hurts me far too much to speak about it._

_Why, Carrie? Was this your plan all along? To leave me with a trace of you that will never go away—to test my conviction every day? How could someone like you fathom something so cruel?_

_And why, in spite of it, in spite of everything… do I miss you so?_

**NEW SALEM PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY, 1926**

Credence Barebone stood in the ruins of the church he had grown up in—the church he had also destroyed—alone.

One moment Percival Graves was there, and then he was not. Credence hardly had time to turn his head before he had vanished with a now-familiar whooshing sound. He froze, shellshocked, and for a little while he felt as if perhaps it was all some mistake; that he would blink and he would be there again, arm in his.

The church stayed empty, and Credence thought again of Him. Of hands on his neck, his face, his hands—seeking skin, as if simply touching him through his clothes wasn’t enough. A warm voice purring in his ear, saying lovely things, empty promises. Even then it had been a little too good to be true; but nobody had ever been _nice_ to him before.

In spite of it, in spite of everything… he missed him sometimes. The rest of the time…

Credence shook his head. The _real_ Percival Graves wasn’t anything like that. Similar, in some ways; but he didn’t like to touch a lot, didn’t talk sweet or lean his face in close like he might—well, anyway, he was different.

 _Not different enough to stay, though._ Credence kicked the discarded stub of candle further under the rubble. Graves was gone, and so was the journal that might have confirmed for him at last who he was, where he came from. There might be more proof in the safe, true; but far too much for him to go through alone and in the dark, no less.

Besides, he thought morbidly, it didn’t exactly matter where he came from if he wasn’t going to be around for much longer. Whatever he’d been feeling for the past few weeks, it was getting worse.

There was a sound outside—another ‘whoosh’, then a faint clatter of footsteps. Credence froze again, then took a stumbling step toward the back of the church. He wanted to be logical—he knew the church better than any outsider, even in its current state—he could hide, or sneak out… but…

A shooting pain burst behind his eyes and his legs buckled again as he tried to go for the hidden alcove under the stairs. The wall swam before his eyes, and his fingers couldn’t find the edges of the panel, simply patting against it uselessly. The main doors creaked open behind him as he slumped against the wall, clutching his head. For a split second in his mind it was Percival returning; then his vision cleared enough to see that it wasn’t him at all, but a short, dark-haired woman with a wand drawn and lighting her path.

“Credence?”

She knew his name. He didn’t know hers—he blinked, tried to recoil, shuffling back as if to blend into the shadows in the corner.

“You’re alive?”

As she inched closer, he felt something physically coiling in his chest, ready to push his insides aside and burst out. It was so much _stronger_ now. What had happened?

“Don’t be scared, Credence; it’s me.” Who? She was lowering her wand, bending down to his level with tears in her eyes. The feeling in his chest cooled. “It’s Tina.”

He knew her and didn’t know her; she was from Before, and all of those memories felt so faded now. Blinking up at her, he started to inch out of the shadows. “Tina?”

Smiling, she bent and wrapped her arms around him. As he flopped his head down onto her shoulder he thought about Percival, pulling him stoically against his chest as if he had no idea how to hold someone; _neither do I_ , Credence remembered thinking.

“Shh, shh. Don’t cry.” Was he? When did he start? Well—when did he stop? It felt like he was always crying, these days. “It’s going to be all right now, I promise. I _promise_.”

“Tina,” he repeated. Was Tina better than Graves? Safer than Graves? How would he know? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. Every time he thought he did, something would happen to prove him wrong. Someone would leave him behind again.

Suddenly she let him go, and he lifted his head to see why—but she was still there, arms still around him. Why couldn’t he feel it any more? He tried to tighten his arms around her, but they swept right through her chest.

“Credence?” Tina gasped, her eyes widening. “What in—”

Her voice distorted, slowing and warping, and she blurred before his eyes. As his vision went dark, other figures appeared around them one by one. He saw Tina turning from side to side, raising her hands—shielding him. Something in him sparked.

 _Flash._ A fuzzy memory of her, Graves and another man standing between him and a group of wizards. _Flash._ Tina between him and Ma. She hadn’t know him—there should have been no value in protecting him. Why? _Flash._ Modesty taking his hand as they left Shaw’s office. Where had she gone? He hadn’t even thought about her in so long.

 _Flash._ Percival standing before him as the Obscurus loomed over them both, unafraid. Perhaps that wasn’t the right word—maybe he had been very afraid, but something else had been more important. So why had he let go? Why hadn’t he come back?

Credence felt his jaw clench. In spite of it, in spite of everything…

 _Flash._ His mind went blank before he could finish his thought, and he knew no more.


	8. Disappointed, Not Surprised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough chapter, and I'm still not 100% happy with it. Be prepared for me to possibly take it down and rewrite. OTL  
> I wish I could tell you whether we're close to the end or not, but I actually have no idea. I have no outline for this story--it's just kind of a thing that happens, which I am really, really not used to (I normally have an obsessively detailed chapter plan for everything I write).  
> So if you're wondering what's gonna happen, same! I mean, I have some idea, but we'll just have to wait and see.

_When you finally get back up on your feet again_  
_Everybody wants to be your old long-lost friend_  
_Said it's mighty strange, without a doubt_  
_Nobody knows you when you're down and out._

(Bessie Smith, 1929)

“You have one minute.” Seraphina’s eyes were ice as she stood in the doorway, staring him down.

Percival felt as if he were being slowly submerged in wet concrete. “Madam President, I—”

“You have _one minute_ , Graves, to explain to me why we found that Obscurial in the Second Salem church, _alive_ , asking for you and wearing _your clothes_.”

He looked at her helplessly. There was no denying it—but there was nothing he could say that didn’t sound terrible, either.

“His were… dirty, so…” His mouth had moved without his intention. Seraphina’s glare intensified—for a second he honestly thought she might hex him.

“Forty seconds.”

Percival felt his heart clogging up his throat in a way that was incredibly unfamiliar. Finally, he simply shook his head. “Is there anything I could say that would make this better?”

She thought about it. “No, there isn’t.”

Silence hung between them like lead. Percival stared down at the floor. At least he knew Credence was alive—but as far as he knew, Percival had abandoned him and there was no way he could tell him that wasn’t the case. It was probably too much to assume he would ever see him again at all.

“Due to our history,” said Seraphina, “you have one chance to relinquish your wand voluntarily.”

“Go ahead.” Percival took the wand out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. “It doesn’t work.”

She frowned as she took it, waving it experimentally. Indeed, nothing happened. “What on earth…?”

“I have some theories,” he said, “but the point is: it doesn’t work.”

Seraphina considered this, then slid it into one of her coat pockets. “I trust you’ll come quietly.”

Percival nodded, but the lump in his throat was getting worse. “Can I—”

Her eyebrow arched dangerously. “You aren’t exactly in a position to make requests.”

“I know, just—” He sighed heavily. “The Obscurial—Credence—don’t hurt him. He didn’t ask for any of this.”

Seraphina gave him a very hard stare.

“He has _killed_ at least three people. He colluded with the most wanted criminal in the wizarding world in order to expose us. You must understand that this looks bad for you, Graves—it was difficult enough for us to roughly determine when you were replaced, and _this_ …” She shook her head sadly. “You are under arrest until this is cleared up, and I am very, _very_ disappointed. I thought you were smarter than this.”

Percival didn’t protest as she Apparated him into her office. It was dark when they entered, but as Seraphina raised her wand the room brightened and he found himself standing in front of the fireplace across from the desk. She left his side and went to it, flipping through a pile of papers that had apparently been left there.

He suddenly remembered something. “Madam President, the journals!”

She looked up at him mid-page turn, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Credence and I—” He ignored her withering stare and forged on. “This is why we were in the church. I’ve found documents overlooked by the investigation; they could contain valuable information about the Second Salemers.”

At that she threw down the papers angrily, her voice lowering dangerously.

“The Second Salemers are _dead_ , Graves, because Credence Barebone _killed their leaders_ and scattered them. Even if he hadn’t, I don’t care about some burnt out Scourer family with picket signs. We are in the middle—” She gestured violently at the door. “—of an _international disaster_ , and _you hid a key suspect from me_!”

“What was I supposed to do?!” He threw his hands up. “If I’d told you about him, you would have locked him up right from the start! You would have treated him like a criminal—you wouldn’t have even listened to him! You certainly wouldn’t let _me_ talk to him, and—”

“Of course I wouldn’t!” Seraphina scoffed. “You aren’t part of this investigation, Graves. Even if you were fit to work, I could never allow you to be involved—”

“Why?! Because it actually _affects me_?!” Percival roared, storming up to her desk. “Because _I_ was the one he targeted? Is it really that you don’t trust me? Or am I just too delicate now? Because you already _knew_ I couldn’t handle Grindelwald—because I’d already lost to him—because—”

“I was _trying—to—protect you_!” she shouted. The sheer force of her rage silenced him immediately. When she continued, it was in a near whisper. “Every time we bring him up for interrogation he talks about you. He mocks you. He tells people things—anyone who’ll listen. Talks about your family. About me. About Dahlia, the whole divorce. About—things you may have thought, but never said. It’s impossible to tell what’s true.”

“Son of a bitch,” Percival muttered.

“I would _never_ put you through that. After what you went through, I would _never_ let that man near you ever again.” When Seraphina looked at him again, she was almost tearful. “You’re my closest friend.”

Swallowing, Percival took a step towards her, hand outstretched. “Seraphina—”

“Which is _why_ —” She batted his hand away. “I am _furious_ that you would hide this from me. I staked my reputation that the _real_ you had no involvement with Grindelwald’s plot. How am I supposed to believe that now that you’ve been caught in bed with his accomplice?”

“I wasn’t—” His face had started to flush, and he fought desperately to contain it. “Look, I’m telling you, I’ve never even spoken to him before all of this!”

“Never spoken to him?” Seraphina rummaged through the pile of papers on the desk, seized one, and shoved it in his face. “You were supposed to have Obliviated him three months ago!”

“I… what?” Percival stared at the paper—it was Tina’s misconduct report, with his signature at the bottom. His head throbbed—but he remembered signing it. He had known early on that Tina’s firing had been his doing, but not why…

There it was, in black and white. Two columns: on the left, the names of No-Maj’s who had witnessed Tina’s outburst; on the right, the name of the Auror who had Obliviated each of them.

Credence Barebone, Percival Graves. Suddenly the lump in his throat grew almost unbearable; it had been him. The _real_ him. The first ‘Percival Graves’ Credence had seen had been the real him.

The realisation was followed by indignation. “He told me that the Memory Modification wore off after just a day.”

“Which would be awfully convenient,” said Seraphina, leaning against the desk, “if someone had planned to use him for something.”

Percival scowled. “Really, Seraphina?”

Her stare said everything; she said nothing.

 “You think I _wanted_ to be part of this?” He laughed—it was too much. “Knowing everything you know about me— _really_?”

“Frankly, Graves? I’m not sure what I really do know about you.”

There was a long silence; true silence, too, as the office was very heavily soundproofed. Finally, Percival sighed and bowed his head.

“Arrest me, then. If it’s what you need to do—if it’s what will keep everyone safe—then I’ll just wait it out. But—” He looked up at her again imploringly. “—I’m serious, Madam President. Please don’t hurt him.”

“What exactly went on between you?” Seraphina’s stare had become uncomfortably knowing. Percival steeled himself.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. The office door creaked open behind them as some of the investigation team filed in—he ignored it. “What do you think? Look, he was secure and I had him under control. I knew you wouldn’t let me interrogate him, so I was going to pry him for information before I handed him over. He _knows_ what that lowlife was doing while pretending to be me—he’s the key in all of this! Not that you asked, but I learned a lot.”

“I didn’t ask,” said Seraphina, icily, “because you were _not supposed to be investigating_.”

Another long silence. Finally, he bowed his head again. “Yes, Madam President.”

Seraphina looked over his shoulder at the person who had entered. “Miss Goldstein, what is _he_ doing here? I told you to contain him.”

“I’m sorry, Madam President, there’s a slight problem with that.”

Percival whipped around; the movement alone seemed to startle Tina and Marisol, but not Credence who was standing between them, trembling. Not with fear—not even with rage. (If he had been angry, it would have been easier to stomach.) If he’d had to describe it from his expression alone, it would be disappointed, not surprised.

“Wait—no—”

Everyone was staring at him, he could feel it—except for Credence, who turned his face away and tucked himself behind Tina. Now, Percival could see that her wand was drawn and glowing at the tip; every few moments she would pause to mutter another spell under her breath.

“Madam President, he’s _not_ dangerous,” Tina said. When Seraphina arched an eyebrow, she amended: “But the Obscurus is. Every spell we cast wears off—we put him in the holding area, and found him on the stairs five minutes later.”

“Magical Quarantine, then,” said Seraphina, decisively.

Tina’s mouth dropped open. “But Madam Picquery, that’s right next to—”

“If Mr. Barebone does not want to be imprisoned near Mr. Grindelwald,” Seraphina declared firmly, “then perhaps he should not help him commit violent crimes. Magical Quarantine, _now_.”

“Don’t,” said Percival helplessly, looking between her and Tina. “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” said the President, closing her eyes. “I have to.”

Desperate, Percival tried to meet Credence’s eyes, but he wouldn’t look at him; he wilted as Tina put her hand between his shoulders to escort him out, leaving Percival alone with the others. There was a stinging sensation in his eyes, and his vision was blurring. Could Credence have possibly come in at a worse moment? Could he possibly have said anything stupider or more upsetting?

“Take Mr. Graves to a solitary room,” said Seraphina, turning her back on him. Marisol wouldn’t have noticed it, but he did—the tightness in her voice, the hesitation. Percival didn’t envy her position at all. In spite of everything, if it were him…

“Yes, Madam President,” Marisol sidled up next to him and took his elbow—his shoulder twitched as if to shrug her off, but he restrained himself. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ve taken his wand. Nothing, for now.”

“Understood, Madam.”

What followed was one of the most awkward and uncomfortable walks of Percival’s life. He had been having rather a lot of those lately. Every time, he would think to himself that it couldn’t possibly get worse—and then it would, of course, do so in spectacular fashion. Still, this was a definite low point. He couldn’t remember ever even having been given detention as a child—even when he was very young he had generally been on the right side of the rules.

Rules suited him. Rules made sense to him. The structure and rigidity that made some of the magical community feel confined and oppressed were comfortable for him—it was a clean system, one he could understand. A clean, safe, unemotional system, where it was as simple as following and enforcing a set of reasonable instructions.

A spike of pain shot through his head and he flinched—Marisol looked over at him as he clutched his head, but he barely saw her. He was thinking of his own face leaning over him again, thinking of how powerless he had felt. _That_ had been the moment it had changed, perhaps; when the rules had failed to protect even him.

Or perhaps it had been the moment when he had hidden Credence. When he thought about that, the pain in his head subsided—but it didn’t soothe him for long. He was where he was now because he had failed Credence terribly.

“I still don’t know how you did it,” said Marisol, suddenly, her grip tightening on his arm.

Percival gave her a questioning look.

“You shouldn’t have been able to hide him,” she said. “He should have given off some sort of magical energy—but all we could sense when we were keeping tabs on your house were the No-Majs in the neighbourhood. He didn’t trip a single ward.”

“Don’t ask me,” said Percival, tiredly. “I have no idea how he does anything.”

“It just seems strange,” Marisol continued, seemingly more to herself. “We should have known _something_.”

“To be fair, nobody ever noticed him when we were keeping tabs on the Second Salemers either.”

Percival shrugged his head dismissively and slid his free hand into his coat pocket. It touched something, and his heart jumped.

 _He still had the books._ Percival was not stupid enough to underestimate Seraphina’s intelligence—she had _let_ him keep them. Either she truly thought they were useless, or there was something she felt only he could figure out—but all he had to do was wait, and he would be able to find out which was true. He quickly hid his smile as Marisol looked up at him, leading him to the door of his cell.

“This feels wrong,” she admitted quietly.

“It’s not wrong,” he told her. “The President gave you an order, didn’t she?”

“I know, but—” Sighing, she let go of his arm. “I could wait with you, at least. Stand by the door so you’re not—”

“No,” said Percival, too quickly. Then, “That really won’t be necessary. Besides, your team needs you. Go and help them.”

“Just—if there’s anything I can do.” She hesitated. “Er… without breaking the law.”

When he thought about it, there was one thing. The more he thought about it, though, the queasier he got. He grimaced, hesitating for a long time. Finally:

“Tell…” The words felt like glass in his mouth. “Tell Ms. Goldstein I’d like to see her. If possible.”

“All right.” She held the door open for him and motioned him inside—sad as it seemed, he didn’t need the encouragement. “I’ll do what I can. You take care now, sir.”

“Really, I’m fine,” he said. Then, “You too, Marisol.”

As soon as he heard her footsteps fading away he dove into his pocket for the journals. He shuffled them into chronological order—to be fair, there were only two not counting the book by E.C. Barebone—and flipped the first one open. On one hand it was easy to assume that he had all the time in the world; on the other, he had no idea when he might be interrupted. So, though he told himself to take his time and be thorough, he quickly found himself skipping entries. He skimmed each page until he found the first mention of the name…

“Caroline,” he murmured, putting his finger on the page. Once he found the starting point—February 21st—it was easy to determine which entries might be relevant from that point. Hours passed, and the story of Credence’s mother—of his _mothers_ , really—deepened. Suddenly, a discovery that was only momentarily disturbing to Mary-Lou hit Percival like a freight train: _Grimsditch_. He was so shocked that he got up off the cot he had been sitting on, went for the door and tried to open it, only for it to rattle and remain closed.

Oh. Right.

“Hello?” he called out into the hallway; but there was no answer. He paced back and forth in the tiny room, turning it over in his head: _Grimsditch_. This was no small revelation; he _knew_ the Grimsditches. Like his, their family was descended from one of the original twelve Aurors, and while he had never met Wilbur Grimsditch he had known his son—who had always boasted of his father’s close relationship with President Fontaine. If it had been him following Credence’s mother around, then… well, his father had to be either him or Fontaine.

A political scandal like this would explain the misfiling of Carrie’s missing person report and, possibly, the entire fiasco with the Department of Necessary No-Maj Relations. It could also explain the sheer magnitude of Credence’s raw magical ability, which had allowed him to survive the Obscurus for so long; like his family, the Grimsditches and Fontaines had been churning out incredibly powerful Aurors for generations now. In which case, Credence wasn’t just a half-blood or even just a garden variety Pureblood; he was, by birth, part of one of the most distinguished wizarding bloodlines in America.

Also, Grimsditch might have passed, but Fontaine was still alive—in fact, he was the former President who had stood next to Percival and his father in the photo he’d found in his room the day he’d gone home. Knowing that now made him sick—if even half of what Percival had learned was true, then it was time for his reputation to have a seriously unflattering makeover. He needed to tell Seraphina _yesterday_ ; but it was still his word and a crazy woman’s diary against the entire wizarding world.

Perhaps there was something more substantial in E.C. Barebone’s book—he rushed back to the cot and picked it up and flipped it open. It had fallen open in the middle, and he was about to flick back to the beginning, when a phrase caught his eye:

“ _Child is now unresponsive when beaten._ ”

His blood froze. He read from the beginning—it only got worse. “ _After stage 3 episode, Child has been unconscious for 3 days._ ” “ _Child no longer remembers original name when asked._ ” Finally, terribly: “ _Child is dead after stage 4 episode causing avulsion of limbs and head._ ”

Percival realised, with horror, that they were describing an Obscurus.

How was it even possible that a No Maj had learned so much about a condition the wizarding world had closed its eyes to? Enough to break it down into stages—stages that always progressed to the host’s death. Percival tried to read between the lines, tried to think of every charm and counter-curse that might apply in one of the situations described—but nothing stuck. All he could do was think of Credence in every one of the scenarios. With a sinking feeling, he realised that short of death, at some point he probably had been in all of them.

_Stage 1: Pre-Manifestation._

_The child loses the ability to perform magic and becomes incredibly calm. In early experiments we believed this to be a success of our methods, only to later learn it was a false alarm._

_I hypothesise that at this stage, the child is not visible to other magical forces._

Percival thought of Credence in particular, closing off that part of himself. How old had he been? Seven, eight? Younger? When had the spark gone out? Had he ever even had one? Eustace’s last line struck him in a way he hadn’t thought it would—was that why nobody had ever noticed Credence? Was that how magical children had been able to go missing without anyone ever finding them?

_Stage 2:  Early Manifestation._

_The demon first appears—_

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Percival had to pause to roll his eyes. “Demon”.

— _as a small dark mass, cowering in the child’s shadows. The mass vanishes when the child becomes aware they are being observed. The confined child will talk to it as they might a pet or young companion, but will have no memory of seeing or speaking to it._

_Stage 3: Possession._

_The demon takes over the child’s body. They are transformed into a smoke-like creature with a highly unstable form; however it is not truly a gaseous being, as it cannot escape through gaps too small for the human host to fit their limbs. It can, however, damage objects and living creatures through contact. The demon is highly aggressive, incapable of speech and cannot be reasoned with._

_When possession ends the child has no memory of the incident, but appears distressed, dehydrated and physically exhausted._

How many times had it happened before anyone had noticed? Over and over, Percival asked himself how it was even possible that Credence had slipped through the cracks so many times. They’d observed the Second Salemers for years— _he’d_ observed them for years. How had nobody but Grindelwald recognised him? Why had it taken _that_?

_Stage 4: Collapse._

The title alone made Percival wince.

_Similar to stage 3, except the physical side-effects gradually worsen until the host body is unable to cope. Necropsy on intact corpses reveal inexplicable internal damage ranging from haemorrhages to lacerations, usually focussed on the brain and heart. Often, major organs are inexplicably missing._

_Hypothesis: in the last stages, the demon becomes unable to feed off the magical energy produced by the child once the source is too depleted. Simply, it “eats” the host from the inside out._

So this was Eustace Barebone’s research—the legacy Mary-Lou had wanted for Credence. Suddenly he hated her with a ferocity he scarcely knew he had in him—and he thought of Credence’s sad eyes, and his disappointment, and he hated her even more. It had been that woman who had set the bar for him, shown him he would never be cared for; no wonder Grindelwald had pounced on that vulnerability in a heartbeat.

His rage was followed by another, even more burning feeling; he _needed_ to see him.

He threw the book down on the mattress beside him and rushed to the door as if forgetting it were locked. If he could just _go_ to Credence, then he could… well, what could he do? Even if he had some idea what an Obscurus was and what it did, what was he supposed to do about it?

(Apparently, like an absolute _idiot_ , tell Credence he would try to help him. Why had he even said that? He’d just looked at him, at his hopeful face and… something had switched off. Or on? He’d just said what felt right instinctively instead of stopping to consider it. Well, he’d never be doing that again.)

“Hello?” Silence. Knowing nobody would hear him—perhaps because nobody would hear him—he added: “Please, help me.”

As he sat back down on the cot to await his own fate, all he could think about was Credence. He couldn’t let him think he was just as bad as everyone else who had ever hurt him. Somehow, he needed to tell him what had really happened. How he really felt.

…However that was.

Hours passed but he did not sleep or even rest—he simply read and reread until his eyes hurt. Then, at last, he heard the click of women’s shoes coming down the hallway. Stuffing the books into his coat pocket again, he stood up at once and waited, eyes trained on the hatch on the door. He dusted himself off and straightened his back as he saw the handle turn, and Tina’s face peered inside.

“Good,” he said, before she could say or do anything—but as he said it, she opened the door fully and he saw her sister, Queenie behind her.

 _Bad,_ he added silently.

“Mr. Graves.” Tina did not look impressed with him in any way. She let Queenie in and then closed the door behind them, facing him with her hands on her hips. “Marisol said you wanted to see ‘Ms. Goldstein’.”

“I did.” Percival cast a slightly nervous glance at Queenie. Once, he might have been completely confident that she would be unable to read his mind—now, he couldn’t be sure. “I meant you, Tina.”

“Oh, Teenie,” Queenie sighed. “You sure this ain’t too much? He’s already so upset.”

“Stop it,” said Percival, pointing at her threateningly.

Tina bristled. “Don’t you talk to her like that.”

“He can’t help it, can he? After all that he—” Cutting herself off, Queenie turned to Tina. “He’s not going to hurt that boy.”

Apparently unconvinced, Tina turned her attention on Percival again. “It’s a little late for that, Queenie. Graves—what did you want?”

When he’d first reluctantly asked for her, his request had been right on the tip of his tongue; _just tell him I’m sorry._ But now that she asked him directly he found he could scarcely look at her.

“Oh,” Queenie breathed. One look at her and Percival knew that she knew; he gave her a warning glare, which Tina noticed instantly.

“What is it? What did he just think?”

Queenie’s already rosy cheeks flushed a bit. “He doesn’t want me to say, but—”

Percival had a split second. He made it count: “Credence is probably Fontaine’s son, the Barebone ancestors experimented on Obscurials, and I have proof in my pocket.”

Both witches stared at him, gobsmacked. Tina tilted her head.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t have time—” He pulled the journals out of his pocket and shoved them into her hands. “—for this. Give those to the President and make _sure_ she reads all of them.”

Tina turned the books over in her hand, baffled. Her lip twisted thoughtfully as she flicked briefly through one of the journals—Queenie murmured a few things to her that didn’t make much sense to Percival without also being able to hear Tina’s stream of consciousness (“Really? You sure? Well, it makes sense but… true! I got it, I got it…”). Finally, she flipped the book closed and looked up at him.

“I’ve already written to Mr. Scamander,” she said, handing the books back. “He’s described the process for removing an Obscurus from its host. The trouble is he isn’t sure if it can be done without…”

She trailed off. Percival got the message. He hesitated, then handed her E.C. Barebone’s book again. “Look at this one properly. The last pages. It’s terrible, but it might…”

Tina’s face whitened as she read.

“They didn’t know what an Obscurus was,” he said, “they didn’t call it an Obscurus. But they knew how it worked, in a sense. If they were right, then there won’t be much time left before Credence is—before he—”

He trailed off, realising both of the women were staring at him again, astounded.

“Oh, Tina…” Whatever she was getting out of his head, Queenie looked close to tears. But in fact…

“Are you… _crying_?” Tina sounded stunned, though not unkind. Regardless, Percival instantly took offense.

“What are you talking about? I’m simply—” A tear dripped off his chin and onto his lapel—the sensation stopped him dead and he immediately turned away from both of them, muttering, “It’s… extremely dusty in here. Appalling, honestly.”

They both turned away to give him a moment—he dabbed at his eyes, took a deep breath and let it go. A lot had happened in the past forty-eight hours, and while he’d had the chance to sleep he couldn’t possibly with all that was going on. Still, he was above this.

“All right,” said Tina, “you’re coming with me.”

Percival’s eyebrow raised. “You have clearance to release me?”

“Not exactly,” said Tina reluctantly, turning to open the door and ushering Queenie out ahead of her. “But this is important.”

“That’s a fireable off—”

Tina gave him a very hard stare as she held the door open.

“…I see your point.”

Once again, Percival was not used to breaking the rules; but he supposed, as he strode urgently down the hallway with the Goldstein sisters, that if you were only trying to do the right thing…

Then again, he thought, a lot of very bad things had been done by people who were trying to do the right thing.


	9. Between You and Me

_Oh, everywhere I go, everyone I know,_  
_Tells me something about you;_  
_I just walk away,_  
_There's nothing I can say;_  
_They don't know I'm lost without you._

(Lena Horne, 1936)

 “All right,” he said, as they kept moving. “We need to get this information to the authorities. If you go ahead of me back to Madam President—I’ll explain everything.”

Tina gave him a look over her shoulder; finally she doubled back and took him by the arm.

“Look,” she said, “you aren’t exactly in charge. I’m just escorting you.”

Percival bristled, but didn’t protest.

“Just stay close and if anyone asks, I’m transferring you. Queenie?”

“Nothin’ to worry about, Teen,” she replied. She was walking a few paces ahead of them, head tilting slightly from side to side—Percival supposed if there were anyone about to cross their path, she would know in advance. Once again, he tried to subtly bolster his Occlumency—but it only seemed to work for as long as he directly focussed on it. Inwardly, he cursed. If he kept on like this, he wouldn’t even be able to do minor Auror work again—being unable to protect his mind would disqualify him from being given any sort of classified information.

Tina’s grip tightened slightly on his arm. She certainly seemed to have come into herself—when he’d first brought her on, Percival had thought of her as having a brilliant but unkempt talent for Auror work. Whatever had happened with Grindelwald and Newt Scamander had tempered her, but even he could see that Credence was still a sore spot.

After a long pause, he tentatively broached the subject. “Thank you for advocating for him earlier.”

“I hope you know how much you hurt him,” she responded. “He hasn’t talked since.”

Percival didn’t have anything to say to that. The look on Credence’s face had been all he’d needed to see to know what he’d done.

 _What exactly went on between you?_ Seraphina had asked. _Nothing,_ he’d said, but now he thought: _something_. It was the only rational explanation for the lengths he’d gone to for him, and for the bizarre and sudden emotional reaction he’d had to their separation. Percival only wished he knew what the hell any of it meant. The last person he’d been this irrational about was Dahlia. Surely that was completely different?

He looked down the hallway at Queenie, whose golden curls were still bobbing along ahead of them. Even before all this had happened, she’d unnerved him—for someone who was already intensely private, a natural Legilimens was a walking nightmare, but back then his Occlumency had been so solid that he hadn’t had anything significant to worry about. On one hand, he’d been upset that she’d been able to read his mind, but on the other hand, if it was as much of a mess as it felt like he doubted she’d be able to make much sense of it either. At least, he hoped not.

As he watched her, Queenie reached the end of the hallway and stopped at the door, tentatively peeking out ahead of them. Once she’d seen that the coast was clear, she turned back to the two of them. “Ready?”

In spite of himself, Percival hesitated. He had had a fleeting, horrible thought—the thought that he might blink and reopen his eyes in the dark room from which the Aurors had rescued him, finding nothing had changed, that none of this was real. Why did a stupid hypothetical like that suddenly paralyse him, when before he would never have even given it the time of day?

Tina tugged on his arm as if to wake him.

“If you want us to leave you, we can,” she said, though not as harshly as he expected.

What Percival wanted was to deal with it himself, quickly and quietly, without anyone particularly paying attention to him so that things could go back to normal. As it was…

“Do you even have a plan?” he asked, looking between them.

Queenie smiled guiltily at Tina, who flushed.

“We’ve… done this before,” she conceded. “Sort of. Not from Quarantine, but…”

Percival put his hand to his forehead. “What the hell went on here while I was gone?”

“It _was_ an emergency,” Tina replied stiffly. Sighing, she let go of him and folded her arms. “It could be difficult this time, though. Grindelwald’s in Quarantine; the security is insane right now with both of them.”

“So, you _don’t_ have a plan,” said Percival. “Remind me again why we aren’t going directly to the authorities?”

“Yeah, Mr. Graves,” piped up Queenie, smiling pleasantly. “Why didn’t we?”

He huffed. “All right, all right…”

“I don’t have a plan,” admitted Tina. “I just—know that we need to help Credence. If I thought he’d be safe here, then maybe, but…”

There was a pause, during which Queenie, sensing a need for a little more security, ushered them into a nearby interrogation room and closed the door behind them. Finally, Percival sighed heavily and hung his head.

“So,” he said, “Quarantine prisoners are extremely high priority. The only thing that would divert security from Quarantine would be…”

“…another high priority security incident,” finished Tina. “I see where you’re going with this, but I don’t think you’d be a big enough distraction. Not unless you really hurt someone or…”

“Besides, if we divert security, we’d also risk Grindelwald escaping. No…” Percival considered it. The only thoughts that were coming to mind were either extremely dangerous, extremely stupid or both. “I… might have something. It may not work, though.”

“It’s a start,” said Queenie, brightly. Then, “Here.”

She reached into one of Tina’s coat pockets and handed him a quill. He took it, with a little trepidation.

“Don’t do that. The mind-reading, not the… helping.” He paused, then gestured slightly with the quill. “Thank you.”

Tina watched him curiously as he took out one of the notebooks and carefully tore out a blank page. After a moment, he paused and handed her the page and quill.

“Actually,” he said, “it would be better if one of you wrote this.”

“Oh, Mr. Graves!” Queenie gasped—but she sounded a little excited. “Are we gonna get in a lot of trouble?”

“Probably,” he muttered. When Tina faltered, Queenie took the quill back and smiled at him.

“Don’t worry—I got it.”

“I know you do.”

Tina watched anxiously as Queenie wrote, then tore her eyes away from her sister to give Graves an apprehensive look. “We’re writing a letter? That won’t be fast enough.”

“Well, it’s not the main plan—it’s a contingency,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. He’d already been arrested once this week—the career damage was already done. “It might take a few hours, but if it works then it should completely distract the President.”

Queenie finished writing and slid the note across the table to the two of them.

_Mr Fontaine,_

_24 years ago, you attempted to hide what you did to me._

_You have failed._

_Our son is currently in MACUSA custody and the President has proof of your acts._

_There are no demands; this is final. Prepare yourself._

_Carrie_

“Good sign-off,” said Percival, legitimately impressed. Tina looked startled, but nodded in agreement.

“Okay, so… we find an owl,” she said. “Then what?”

Percival swallowed and kept carefully silent—but the moment he thought it, Queenie leaned across the table toward her sister.

“You sure we can’t talk to the President, Teenie? If we just show her what we’ve learned…”

“No, no, that won’t work.” Percival bristled. “That’s why I didn’t suggest it _out loud_.”

“Madam Picquery has a bigger picture to think about,” Tina agreed. “For as long as we don’t know how to contain the Obscurus, Credence is too dangerous by her standards.”

She looked at Percival, and it seemed they were now having the same thought.

“It never attacked anyone while you were hiding him. Why?”

Racking his brain and coming up with very little, he shrugged. “When he first showed up, he almost did—but he passed out on me right afterwards. The rest of the time, he was fine. Mostly.”

“When I found him in the church...” Tina began—at this, Percival sat up straighter. While he’d been unable to sleep, he’d found himself thinking a lot about that particular time period—Credence, alone in the church. “...He was sort of… fading. He tried to hug me and his arms just… went straight through me.”

 _His whole arms?_ Percival thought of it happening with his hands, once or twice—and then he thought of Eustace Barebone’s book, and his stomach twisted awfully.

“I think he fainted when the other Aurors showed up. It was the only reason we could get him back to MACUSA so easily—as soon as he woke up, he started panicking. Saying something about you and how he had to…”

She trailed off. Percival didn’t dare to ask.

“What did he say?” Queenie put in for him. He was starting to feel a little attacked each time she voiced his thoughts too closely.

Fidgeting in her chair, Tina cleared her throat. “I… don’t really remember. Just said his name a lot. He was a bit incoherent.”

Percival averted his eyes guiltily.

“And after what he heard _you_ say,” she added, bluntly, “he cried, and told me it didn’t matter what we did with him.”

“I… see.” Percival felt his eyes growing hot again and blinked firmly to clear them. Not again. “Well… those remarks were a little out of context…”

“No,” Tina said, glaring at him, “you were just trying to save your own ass.”

“All right!” he snapped. “I regret what I said. Are you happy now?”

“Well, was it true?” Tina shot back.

Percival faltered. Maybe it was. Maybe he had used Credence, just like everyone—or at least, he’d meant to. In the end, he hadn’t ever really been able to grill him for information the way he’d planned; he’d waited and wasted his time until Credence had felt comfortable enough to tell him on his own. In a way, he thought, both of them must have been afraid of what they would learn from each other. Then there were those strange moments, where Credence would lean into him, or smile, and he hadn’t been afraid at all.

There was no use being proud about it now.

“I just…” He swallowed thickly. “I just want to tell him I’m sorry.”

Tina bit her lip thoughtfully, then, finally, nodded. “Okay.”

The three of them sat around the interrogation room table in silence. Percival drummed his fingers against it restlessly—finally, Queenie stood up with the note in her hand, flourishing it lightly.

“I’m gonna go find an owl, okay?” She tucked it into her dress—Percival instinctively dipped his gaze respectfully, but she just giggled. “I’ll keep an ear out if you need help, Tina.”

“Sounds good,” said Tina, although she was still a little wide-eyed. When Queenie had left, she looked at him. “I mean… we could just wait and see what happens. I don’t like it, but…”

“I don’t like it, either,” said Percival. “Look: having me with you is only going to slow you down. I think you should take the books to the President and just make sure Credence is all right. That might be the best we can do, right now.”

“It’s just…” Tina shook her head slowly. “Is that really good enough?”

He sighed. “No, but anything else might just make it worse.”

“But blackmailing Fontaine, that’s—”

“ _Definitely_ illegal. Especially as we were impersonating someone… who is dead,” he finished for her; he saw her jaw tense. “I’ll take the fall if it comes back to you.”

Another long, thoughtful silence.

Tina said, “This is insane.”

Percival said, “Yes, it is.”

Despite it all, they smiled at each other when she shut him back in the holding cell, and he felt strangely calm knowing that things were in her hands. Perhaps it was better that way—after all, she had been there for Credence more than once already. (In the back of his mind, he thought: _and defeated Grindelwald, too_.)

Everything was going to be all right, he told himself. Credence would live without his apologies, without his face that could only possibly be associated with the feeling of being used and discarded.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes at last.

Everything would have to be all right.

 _Hush now,_ his mind told him. _You won’t feel a thing._

He wished it was true.

_And if you do, it doesn’t matter._

That, at least, might be true.

_You won’t remember it._

His eyes closed. He saw the Obscurus roaring out of the cupboard under the stairs; Credence curled up in the corner of the guest room with Poppy offering him the croissant; a broken teacup on the floor; smoke everywhere, all around him, as he walked straight into it—what had he done that day, that had made Credence calm down?

In between them all, flashes of memories that didn’t belong. Dahlia. His parents. Ilvermorny. A dark room with his own face staring back at him.

Credence in his living room; Credence at the foot of his bed; Credence waiting by the front door; Credence in the alleyway behind the church.

Credence. Credence. _Credence_.

It was going to be all right, he told himself again. Please—let him be all right.

Someone tapped on the door and he gasped awake. There was a shadow in the window on the door, but he couldn’t see who it was from where he lay. Until…

“Well, well, now…” A voice he couldn’t quite place—until it distorted, and became his own. “This must be a familiar feeling by now, yes?”

Percival wanted to tear over to the door... but as in dreams, he was frozen in place.

“Not feeling talkative? Well, that doesn’t matter. I always seem to know what you’re…”

His voice drowned out and Percival abruptly became so dizzy that he almost blacked out—he felt his vision starting to blow out at the edges when suddenly Credence’s tearful face popped into his mind, clear as crystal. In the memory he could feel himself moving onto the couch beside him and pulling him against himself; Credence went still and then slowly, slowly relaxed against him. It was so vivid that he almost felt like he was there. Then there was an amused laugh—almost a snort—and he was back in the cell again.

“ _Interesting_.”

“Stop,” he heard himself muttering as he sat up. “Leave him alone.”

“Please. I’ve seen sides of that boy you wouldn’t _believe_.”

“Leave him _alone,_ ” Percival repeated roughly, finally standing up.

Another memory—Credence between him and a brick wall, their faces inches apart. Instantly Percival knew the memory wasn’t his, but it wouldn’t stop playing; over the top of the images he could hear a whispered commentary:

 _Please. Please touch me, nobody_ ever _— please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop, please,_ please _—_

Credence’s _thoughts_. And suddenly in the memory he was outside his own body, seeing the two of them in the alleyway behind the church, seeing someone else touching Credence with his hands, Credence reacting…

“Stop,” he tried to say, even though it felt like no sound was coming out of his mouth. “Don’t—I don’t want—”

His memory; Credence standing in the crack of his bedroom door, the night he had come to tell him the truth. Not his; Credence being led up the front steps of his house under an arch of wine-red roses. His memory; Credence calling him by his first name for the first time. Not his; Credence’s eyelids fluttering as someone squeezed his hips through his clothing.

_Don’t stop, please, why are you—don’t stop—don’t—_

“Stop it!”

“Are you upset that I did it?” came the purr of his own voice. “Or just upset that it wasn’t you?”

“I—” Percival had a thousand furious responses that all died on the tip of his tongue.

“You know, to him… the only difference between you and me,” it continued, “is that he still wants _one_ of us.”

That was _it_. Percival stormed over and threw an irrational punch at the door as if expecting his hand would simply phase through and connect with the person on the other side. As his knuckles smarted, his vision swam—and he still couldn’t make out the face of the person on the other side of the door.

“It doesn’t matter now.” The voice was fading. “I only came to say goodbye.”

He saw the figure turn and start to walk away. Things began to come into focus—white hair, a dark coat—and just as suddenly melted away again. The rest of his surroundings melted, too, colours swirling together and then burning away, leaving only black smoke behind.

When he woke up, it was because someone had thrown the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a loud ‘crack’. He jolted upright, but Tina was already pulling him to his feet. He scarcely had time to ask what was happening before she yanked him out the door and down the hallway, breaking into as much of a run as she could with him weighing her down. It wasn’t that he hadn’t any sense of urgency—but the nightmare had left him shaken, and he was having trouble getting his legs to obey him.

Wordlessly Tina swept him out of the detention areas and into one of the elevators—only once they were headed up did she speak to him.

“He’s gone,” she told him, and now he could see that her hands were trembling and her dark eyes were shining with unshed tears.

His blood turned instantly to ice. _No._ “Credence…?”

“Not Credence,” she said, grimly. “Him.”

“ _What_?”

With horror, Percival slowly lifted the hand that he had punched the door with in his dream, clenching it experimentally. On the peak of his index knuckle was the red and purple bloom of a fresh bruise.

“Your plan, it—it worked,” she looked as if just repeating it was going to make her be sick. “Fontaine came. He forced Madam Picquery to let him into Quarantine. There was an incident—Ms. Lopez was…”

She choked up and couldn’t continue. Percival himself felt paralysed, but he pushed her on. “Marisol was what?”

“Killed,” Tina almost squeaked through a lump in her throat. Her glistening eyes were trained on the elevator door. “And Grindelwald got away.”

There were a million, million things Percival thought and felt in that moment, but all that he said was, “I see.”

“The President wants to see you,” Tina whispered, through the oppressive tirade of his thoughts. Percival thought he felt her move a little closer to his side.

Without thinking, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “All right.”

When they got off the elevator, Percival found himself before not just Madam Picquery, but the entire investigation team. O’Brien, the Roche twins; everyone who had ever worked under him was crowded around the President’s desk at her side, barely looking up at them as they walked in.

“You have your assignments,” she was saying. “The Aurors-in-training have been given clearance for this incident; keep each other safe, but waste _no_ time.”

Murmurs of “yes, madam” echoed around the room. Seraphina stood and lifted her hand.

“Go,” she said. The Aurors Apparated in small groups until the room was empty except for the three of them.

Hesitantly, Tina approached the desk with her head slightly dipped. “Madam President, his cell was locked. There’s no way he went anywhere after I visited him last night.”

“Thank you, Tina.” Seraphina nodded. “I’m not concerned about that. I would like to talk to Mr. Graves about the reading material he has been so insistent about—”

She held up a small slip of paper that Percival and Tina both recognised instantly.

“—and its connection to this threatening message that former President Fontaine seems to have received, which evidently upset him enough to force his way through security in Quarantine.”

Percival froze. “ _He_ killed Marisol?”

“I see Ms. Goldstein has updated you,” she said. “No. Marisol Lopez was killed when Fontaine mistakenly opened Mr. Grindelwald’s cell. When he realised his mistake, the former President attempted to cast a curse at him, which rebounded and hit her.”

“Where is he?” Percival demanded.

“If I knew,” Seraphina said, coldly, “I am sure I would not be sending the entire Department out out to look for him.”

“Not Grindelwald—Fontaine.”

“He has been escorted home,” she told him. “And I have assured him that amidst our _numerous_ other concerns, I will make some effort to determine the origin of this letter.”

“I wrote it,” said Percival and Tina, simultaneously.

He looked at her. “You did not.”

Tina arched an eyebrow. “Neither did you.”

“Pardon me,” Seraphina interrupted, “but I am familiar with both of your handwriting, and this letter matches neither. Tina, where is your sister?”

At that, Tina went very still. “I… she hasn’t… she didn’t…”

“It doesn’t matter who wrote it,” Percival cut in. “It’s true; and given time, Madam President, I could gather a compelling case.”

“I’m sure,” she said, smoothly, “but that’s not why the two of you are here.”

“What do you need, Madam President?” To Tina’s credit, Percival thought, she looked extremely composed, even if she must have been terrified.

“Tina,” said the President, “in spite of your previous lapses in judgment, you are the person I trust most to lead this current investigation. I’d like you to remain at headquarters to coordinate the Aurors in the field and oversee all incoming intelligence. Can you do that?”

She looked stunned, but nodded. “Of course, Madam President.”

“Good. Go, now.”

There was the briefest moment where Tina met Percival’s eyes; he gave her a minute nod and she headed for the elevator again, heading back down to the main investigation department. Once they were alone, Seraphina gave Percival a hard look.

“You have challenged my opinion of you a _lot_ in a very short time, Graves,” she said.

He couldn’t do anything but agree. “Yes, Madam President.”

“And yet,” she went on, “I have the feeling that if I were to review the evidence you have collected myself, it is likely we would arrive at the same conclusion. It is hardly a priority right now, but I will not be discounting what you’ve told me. Nor will I be taking any action against Ms. Goldstein.”

There was a slight release of tension in his chest, though he was still wound tighter than ever. He nodded.

“While the Aurors are busy, there’s something I need you to do.”

“Of course,” he said, almost habitually.

Seraphina closed her eyes briefly as if to collect her thoughts. Then she looked up at him. “I need you to calm down your friend.”


	10. Together Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update?! That's right, guys, I'm working on this fic as part of NaNoWriMo, so I've been finishing them a bit faster than usual. I was going to wait a bit before posting this, but I reconsidered.  
> This update contains several things you guys probably won't like, and one thing you might! Or maybe not, I'm not going to tell you your business.  
> Kidding aside, this chapter was really tough. I _still_ don't know if I'm 100% happy but you know what?  
>  _Whatever_.

_Love me or leave me and let me be lonely._  
_You won't believe me that I love you only._  
 _I'd rather be lonely than happy with somebody else._  
(Ruth Etting, 1929)

Moments later he stepped out of the elevator at MACUSA’s lowest basement level and through the narrow hallway that led to Magical Quarantine. The cells here had been charmed to hell and back to absorb and dispel any spell used inside of them; so, posted near the entryway were several safety warnings and lists of items that could be permanently damaged or disabled if brought inside, along with a small, windowed “wand drop” office, currently unattended.

Credence Barebone was an oddity of some value, Seraphina had said, but Magical Quarantine was compromised and he was too dangerous. There would be no choice but to destroy the Obscurus if it couldn’t be contained anywhere else.

She had given him two hours.

The cell-block was rather small compared even to the detention area Percival had been detained in only a short while earlier, with only three soundproof padded cells lining each side of the hall. They were all a reasonable size; after all, anyone who was considered dangerous enough to be consigned to Magical Quarantine could expect to be there for some time. One of the six metal cell doors was wide open and surrounded by violent-looking scorch marks. As Percival walked past it, he saw the crisp outline of an arm standing out white against the black soot where Marisol’s body had been removed.

It was deathly silent as he neared Credence’s cell, which was last on the right, and he felt his movements slowing as he approached the door. At first he wondered why the window had been blacked out, but as he got closer he realised the entire cell was swimming in plumes of black Obscurus, seemingly straining against the glass. Hand on the door handle, he hesitated, looking back down the hall. If it were to escape into the main halls of MACUSA…

He told himself not to think about that—to think about Credence and not the terrifying magical parasite associated with him. (In a lot of ways, though, that was even more daunting.)

Percival braced himself and clenched his fist on the door handle.

He took a deep breath.

He pulled.

The Obscurus roared as he opened the door, a terrible screeching scrape like nails on a chalkboard. Percival faltered in the doorway, bracing himself. The black mass coiled up on the roof and loomed over him; Credence was nowhere to be seen but Percival knew that he was in there _somewhere_ , drowning in the smoke.

“It’s all right, Credence,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

In a flash the Obscurus had dropped off the ceiling to fill the entire cell, hissing dangerously.

“Let’s just… talk about this,” he went on, starting to lift his arms to shield his face. He felt a slight lump in his throat. “I’m here to help.”

Slowly, cautiously, he inched closer and reached a hand toward the writhing creature, palm up. For a moment the constant, agitated motion of the Obscurus seemed to slow. Percival squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

In what felt like a second, a tendril coiled firmly around his leg, whipped him aggressively off the floor and tossed him as easily as a ragdoll out of the cell and into the hallway, his arm catching roughly on the metal frame of the door on his way out. _CRACK._ Percival heard the bone break before he felt it—his left arm now lay useless at his side. Stunned, he lay stone-still on the floor for a few seconds before trying to push himself upright with his good arm. When he tried to get up, though, the leg by which he’d been thrown wouldn’t take his weight.

“Credence,” he gasped through a rawness in his throat. “It’s _me_.”

Surging out of the cell, the Obscurus towered over him, its chilling sounds echoing constantly around the narrow hall. Dread was starting to creep into his bones, deeper than any other time he’d confronted Credence in this state, and his throat clenched. He hadn’t seen the pictures of the Obscurus’ previous victims, but he had some idea; he didn’t want to die like that. Not before…

“I need you to listen to me, Credence.” Unable to move forward, he found himself pressing back against the door, heart pounding. “They’ll kill you if you don’t—they’re too afraid. I just came to tell you I’m suh…”

A wave of dizziness hit him mid-sentence and his head sagged forward before he regained himself.

“I’m sorry.”

The Obscurus didn’t back off, but it went silent as it continued to draw closer, spiralling tighter and tighter around him until he could barely see anything else beyond its nebulous shape.

“I didn’t mean what I said. Maybe I did, at first, but I…” His breath was beginning to come raggedly, and he couldn’t see the light at all any more. “I was… I was so damn _scared_ when I met you, Credence.”

In the darkness, he could barely tell if the Obscurus was moving or not. A low, pained sound echoed from all directions.

“I couldn’t remember _anything_. I thought I would never know what happened, that nobody—nobody would tell me. I had no idea who I _was_ any more.”

Percival fought the growing numbness in his mind. It was getting harder and harder to speak.

“But… that’s… no excuse. Even now, I’m being… selfish. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Slowly, he lifted his good arm to try and feel through the darkness. Something stung his skin as it whipped through his fingertips—but he didn’t try to pull away.

“I did an awful thing. I should never have…” White and red were starting to bloom behind his eyes. “I just wanted you to know the truth. I just…”

With a low, whistling wail, the Obscurus closed in one final time.

“I want you to know all of it.”

Though his eyes had drooped closed, he could feel the light from the hallway again. As he blinked and the world came slowly back into focus, he realised there was a warm weight on top of him; the Obscurus was gone, and Credence was lying against his chest in a motionless heap.

He looked terrible; it had been less than two days since they had last seen each other, but he somehow looked thinner, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. Percival tried to shake him awake with his good arm, but the movement sent waves of agony through the broken one and, hissing in pain, he froze instead.

The sound made Credence gasp and lift his head. His eyes were an unnatural, milky white—but as Percival watched they went back to their usual, dark brown. The moment they did, he seemed aware of his surroundings again, and scrambled weakly onto his hands and knees to start patting Percival over frantically.

 “Oh, my god—”

Percival was relieved to see him moving at all. Still—

“Credence, wait— _ow_!”

“What did I do to you?” His eyes were filling up with tears. “Oh, god…”

“Credence, it’s fine, it’s—nngh—fine.” Percival reached over with his good hand to nudge Credence’s hand away from squeezing his broken arm. Through gritted teeth, he laughed painfully. “I guess your friend doesn’t like me.”

Credence straightened up and looked off in the direction of the elevator. “I—I’ll go and get help for you.”

“No!” Percival put his right hand up in a ‘stop’ gesture. Credence blinked at him. “No. You _cannot_ go out there on your own. Someone will be down here soon.”

“But—” Credence looked around the empty hallway. “But you’re hurt.”

How could he even be thinking about that right now? He looked a wreck himself; knowing what he now knew about Obscurials, Percival was terrified that Credence might implode any moment. Powering through the pain, he pushed himself upright with his working arm and braced his good leg.

“It could have been a lot worse,” he huffed, offering Credence his arm. Even the smallest motions felt as if he were fighting through quicksand. “I need—I need you to get me to the wand drop. Can you do that, doll?”

Credence stared at him wide-eyed for a second, his pallid cheeks turning pink. “Y-yes, I—w-what?”

“Thanks.” Percival didn’t even register.

So, Credence knelt beside him and let Percival drape his good arm over his narrow shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. It took a while—Credence wasn’t particularly strong, and kept nervously dropping him every time he winced. Once they did get moving, it was very slow going. It occurred to Percival, when they were only a few feet down the hall after what felt like hours but had in fact only been a few minutes, that it would probably be easier to just lie on the ground and wait for help; but now they’d committed to this, and he was determined to see it through.

At the end of the hallway Credence himself stumbled, and Percival luckily planted his good leg hard enough to keep them on balance. They had reached the wand drop, where the office door was thankfully unlocked. Credence threaded him through the door and onto the desk chair, where he landed with a groan.

The two of them were completely breathless, and must have looked quite the sight. For a moment, Percival was so disoriented that he completely forgot why he had asked Credence to move him down here; finally, he tore his gaze off Credence’s face long enough for it to flit across the plaque above the drop slot. “WANDS”. There was only one remaining in the box—one he recognised—an elegant Quintana wand, with a feather-like pattern embellishing on the hilt. He swallowed. _Marisol_.

Tentatively, he picked it up and pointed it at his broken arm.

“ _Ferula_ ,” he murmured, and felt a sickening snap as the bones clicked together again. His head rocked back with a low groan and he put the wand aside on the desk for a moment before picking it up again to attempt his leg—it was so difficult to focus, but Marisol’s wand responded easily to him instead of resisting or acting out, like most wands did when handled by a foreign user. In fact, he felt a warmness from the moment he picked it up, as if another hand were resting over his as he held it. He supposed he had gotten lucky; hers was a flexible willow wand so had a natural aptitude for healing, but his concentration had been so terrible that it was still by no means seamless. Even after he had healed them, his arm and knee still ached horribly, and no amount of healing was going to fix his exhaustion.

Credence had sat down on the floor with his back against the desk, looking equally spent. Percival found it was increasingly difficult for him not to simply _look_ at him, as if he might disappear again the second he averted his eyes. Credence was being a little more subtle about it; he would flick his eyes up to Percival’s face and then quickly dip his gaze again, but Percival could see he was still looking at his feet.

“I…” The moment he spoke, Credence’s head snapped up. Percival suddenly felt extremely stupid. “I’m not sure how much you heard, just before, but I… I owe you an apology, Credence.”

Though his posture had been tired, but relaxed, he suddenly saw Credence flinch painfully. Face falling, his eyes darted away before he replied.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” Percival insisted—if he was going to apologise, then he’d be damned if anyone was going to stop him. “What I said to the President, when you walked in… you need to know that isn’t how I think of you.”

When Credence didn’t respond, Percival leaned over a little more in his chair to look at him.

“Credence?” His heart was pounding anxiously, and his freshly healed injuries smarted as he lifted himself off the chair and knelt beside him on his good knee. “I’m sorry I even thought about using you. I’m sorry I left you alone in the church that night—I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

Nodding silently, Credence was beginning to curl into a protective ball, his knees sliding up to his chest again. Percival’s face fell. Maybe this was something that couldn’t quite be fixed with a simple apology.

“Can you listen to me, Credence? Please?” Very carefully, he reached out to touch his shoulder. “I don’t know how long we have.”

“Why?” asked Credence, finally, without lifting his head. “Why don’t you know?”

“Because I was only given two hours to come down here an—” Percival halted mid-speech; Credence was giving him a rather withering look. “…and… calm you down.”

“Oh.” Credence turned his head away again.

“But that’s not the only reason I came!” he protested. “There’s so much I need to tell you; about your mother, about your condition… I found out a lot from those books, Credence. You were _right_.”

“Where are they?” asked Credence, staring him again.

Percival wavered. “What?”

“The books.” When Percival dipped his gaze, he shook his head. “You gave them to someone, right? Because you _had_ to.”

“I—don’t be angry, Credence, it was the only way I could…” He sighed. “No, you’re right. They weren’t mine to give.”

A much longer pause this time. Percival had just opened his mouth to say something else when Credence spoke instead, his voice faintly muffled by his arms, which were now folded over his knees.

“How do you think of me?”

He blinked. “What? I…”

“You told me you didn’t mean what you said before, so…” Credence looked up at him, but his eyes were frightened, not accusing. “So what do you mean?”

Percival felt almost more stunned than he had when the Obscurus had thrown him against the wall, but he knew his answer was important. With a sigh, he moved over and sat right next to Credence on the floor beside the desk, gingerly hooking his recently healed arm around his shoulders.

“I’m not sure how I think of you,” he confessed. “Not like that, though.”

Credence fidgeted and made a tiny whimper as they touched.

“The truth is…” He sighed again heavily. “I really don’t know how to put it into words. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but talking about… those sorts of things… isn’t really a strength of mine.”

“No,” mumbled Credence, “I did notice that.”

“Right.” Percival gave a strained smile. Then, after another silence. “I’ve been… meaning to ask, if that’s all right with you. What about you, Credence? How do you think of me?”

He tried desperately not to be afraid of his answer, or think about what Grindelwald had said or shown him—if it really had been Grindelwald, he reminded himself. The bruise on his hand was one thing, but he was increasingly unsure of what he _could_ be sure of.

Credence was quiet for a long time, then said: “It’s still hard, sometimes.”

Sensing his tension, Percival slightly loosened his arm around him as he went on.

“E-every time I look at you, I see… someone who hurt me, maybe worse than anyone.” His lip quivered. “You look like him. You sound like him. I know you’re _not_ him, but still…”

“So… when you heard me saying those things about you,” Percival offered, gently, “you must have thought it was happening all over again. That you couldn’t trust me.”

“Yeah.” Credence only met Percival’s eyes for a second before his gaze flickered away again. “I just… it’s still confusing. Y-you keep saying things that make me think of… before. I know you don’t mean to—it’s not your fault…”

After a moment’s thought, Percival tightened his arm around his shoulders again.

“How about you tell me if I say something like that, then?” Credence looked up at him nervously. “Don’t worry—I won’t be upset. That way, I’ll know not to say it.”

“I could… try,” he offered, uncertainly.

“All right.” Percival squeezed his shoulder gently. “I just… don’t want to hurt you.”

 _I don’t want to be him,_ he thought, with a cold feeling in his chest.

“A lot of people hurt me,” Credence said, with a sudden bitter edge to his voice. Percival looked over at him and saw that his eyes were watering faintly, though he was making a valiant effort not to let them brim over. “B-but at least—at least those other people never made me think they _loved_ me.”

“I would _never_ do that,” said Percival, without thinking.

Credence looked at him.

“I mean—I would never _lie_ about... well, something like that.” Percival coughed. “I… you know what I meant.”

“Um…” Credence’s pale cheeks started to flush again. “Yes. All right. I—I think so.”

As he looked at him, Percival felt a lightness in his chest that he knew he had felt once before, but not where. In any event, he was too tired to go delving into his memory over something that probably wasn’t significant anyway.

“Great. So,” he said, more than ready to change the subject. “Do you want me to tell you what I found out?”

“I… I do, but…” Credence’s arm draped carefully around Percival’s waist as his head drifted down onto his shoulder. “Not right now.”

It was important that Credence know everything, Percival knew, and soon; but he closed his eyes and let his head tilt to rest on top of Credence’s. One more moment wouldn’t hurt.

He was so exhausted he could almost fall asleep like this and, in fact, almost did and had to catch himself once or twice as they sat there—but Credence, though clearly shattered, remained quietly awake the entire time. Now that they were so close to one another, Percival could see how awful he looked. It might have been hard for him to rest, too, but Credence didn’t seem to have slept at all the entire time they’d been apart. He looked worse than ill, but selfishly Percival was just glad he was here right _now_ , and at the very least didn’t seem angry with him anymore. It had happened so slowly that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint the change, but there was no denying that he had become protective of Credence. Now that they were together again, he told himself, he was going to make sure that he did everything that he could to keep him safe.

After what felt like a very long time, Credence asked, “Will you tell me now?”

In as much detail as he could remember, Percival told him. He began with Eustace Barebone and his secret experiments. There was no need to describe every gruesome and gory detail of the experiments themselves (although he was sure that Credence might not be half as shocked as he had been), but he made sure to tell him everything he could about the theorised “stages” of an Obscurial.

Credence was quiet throughout, and remained that way as he began the story of Mary-Lou and Carrie, but as Percival neared the end he felt his shoulders begin to shake—so he stopped, and let him cry into his shoulder until he couldn’t cry any more.

When he finally lifted his head, Percival reached over without thinking to dry one of his cheeks with the end of his sleeve (the shoulder area of his shirt was by now quite soaked). Then he stopped, and blinked, and felt surprised at himself—it had never been so easy for him to do this for someone. Perhaps he was simply getting used to it. Credence, however, was clearly not used to it at all; in fact, Percival was beginning to worry that he was overwhelming him by being _too_ nice.

“We can stop,” he said, shifting as if to disentangle himself slightly from the pile they had found themselves in next to the desk. (It was _not_ like him to sit on the floor, either.) “I know this must be difficult to hear.”

Credence whined and reached out to grip the side of his jacket, keeping him where he was. Percival relented and sank back down beside him, letting his head flop back against the desk for a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said, “for telling me.”

“Not at all.” Percival cleared his throat. “You have the right to know. I’ll… try to get the journals back, so you can read them yourself.”

There was a pause, then Credence suddenly sat up a little straighter. “Wait… I heard something.”

Percival tilted his head and strained to listen to the otherwise silent room.

“N-not just now, I meant earlier. I just remembered—I heard someone come down here, looking for ‘Carrie’. I don’t remember what happened. I heard… fighting, I think, and a woman screaming, and… everything happened so quickly.” His fists were clenching. “I remember thinking I _had_ to get out, and then just… being _so_ angry.”

“Is there anything else you remember?” Percival pressed, gently. “Anything, Credence?”

“Just one thing,” said Credence. Now he was fidgeting uncomfortably. “I thought I heard… you.”

“Me?”

“Everything went quiet, then… I thought I heard your voice outside my door.” He swallowed. “So I went to you—i-it. And that’s the last thing I can remember.”

Fortifying himself, Percival took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing you need to know.”

“What?” asked Credence tensely. He looked to be anticipating a blow.

“He’s free now.” He leaned his head in the direction of the hallway, where not one, but two cells lay open and unoccupied. “Him. The one we were talking about—the one who hurt you—Grindelwald.”

This time the quiet was raging, and Percival felt a little chill as Credence’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to say something to comfort him, but it all sounded disingenuous in his mind.

Tilting his chin up, Credence said, “What are we going to do?”

“What are _we_ going to do?” Percival couldn’t help but feel affronted. “You’re in a high-security prison, Credence—you do realise I’ve been arrested, too, now?”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Credence pointed out, plainly.

“Well, I meant to,” said Percival. “The point is, it’s not our choice. Tina and the other Aurors will handle it. You and I, we… well, we’ll have to wait.”

“Are you… fine with that?”

He couldn’t help but laugh with the frustration of it all. “Credence, that’s been my situation ever since I met you.”

“I know,” said Credence, and repeated: “So… are you fine with that?”

Percival looked down at him and—in spite of himself—smiled gently. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little relentless?”

Defying his expectations, Credence took him by the lapels, pulled him in, and kissed him clumsily on the corner of his mouth.

“You have.”


	11. Less Traditional Options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your support these last few chapters! The next few are almost done as well, but to space out the content I might queue them up to release once a week until I'm caught up, just to give me time to work on more so that I can try and make a show of "steady" updates. *cue studio laughter*

_Something strange happened to me  
Lost my heart so suddenly  
Suddenly I found myself in a dream  
One sweet kiss did it to me  
I got dizzy instantly  
But something stranger happened, strange as it seems._ __  
(Freddy Martin, 1934)

For a fleeting moment, Percival Graves felt invincible.

Then he remembered that he was in the wand-drop office next to Magical Quarantine, and that the two hours he had been given to convince the President not to execute the Obscurial were almost certainly running out, if they hadn’t already.

If he were to be completely objective, the Obscurus had just thrown him against a wall, broken his arm and dislocated his knee, and that was proof enough that it was still dangerous, even when its host wasn’t being threatened. Then again, the _Obscurial_ had also just kissed him, so objectivity was out the window.

“I… oh.” He blinked hard. “ _Oh_.”

“I’m sorry,” said Credence, quickly—the icy resolve he’d had a few moments ago had melted in an instant. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I—”

“Stop,” said Percival, reaching over to cup his chin and prevent him from turning away. “I’m not upset with you—at all—I just… perhaps this isn’t the time for…”

He trailed off, his grip already loosening on Credence’s chin as they stared into each other’s faces.

“For what?” Credence whispered, as if afraid to break the silence.

“What?” Percival’s mind had gone white for a second. He felt foolish, but it was the nicest thing that had happened to him since he’d come back to this nightmare, and maybe even for a long time before that, too. “Oh! Er—we’ll talk about it later, all right? Come on; we need to get out of here.”

Grudgingly, he pulled away, clearing his throat and dusting himself off hurriedly as he got to his feet. (His bad leg twinged as he stood up on it.) Credence stayed on the floor a moment more, looking up at him dolefully; but when Percival offered his arm, he smiled meekly and took it, wobbling a little as he stood up beside him.

It was then that Percival remembered just how rough he’d looked from the moment he’d rematerialized on top of him in the hallway. He wasn’t magically better just because he’d had enough guts to challenge him to go after Grindelwald, then kiss him; he was still on borrowed time.

“I’m going to need you to trust me a little,” he said, keeping Credence steady with his hands on his shoulders. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. So first—you’re not looking so good. Would it be better if I left you down here and came back?”

“No,” groaned Credence, who now that he had been upright for a little longer looked as if he were going to be sick. He gripped Percival’s arm a little tighter for support.

That answered his question. “All right. Then I’m going to take you with me upstairs, and I need you to stay calm and keep close to me. Got it?”

Wavering, Credence nodded. Percival gripped him closer and began to steer him out of the little office and toward the elevator. As they left, he let his gaze fall on Marisol’s wand where he had placed it on the desk.

 _Thank you,_ he thought, as he left it behind.

Once they were in the elevator, he let Credence lean against him more heavily. Although he was taller, Percival found himself thinking that if he hadn’t been in such poor condition both from his injury and from his time in confinement, he wouldn’t be so difficult to carry bridal style—but this was all starting to veer into a weird sort of emotional territory he wasn’t sure if he wanted to visit right now. Instead, he hoisted Credence’s arm securely over his shoulder and let him hang limply against him.

“Did they feed you?” he asked suspiciously—though really, with how weak he suddenly looked, he just wanted to keep him talking.

“Yes, but… couldn’t eat,” Credence mumbled.

“You ate just fine at my place, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Percival exhaled through his nose. “I’ll have to see if they’ll let me take you back.”

Credence hummed noncommittally.

“If you _want_ to go back,” Percival corrected himself. “If you don’t, then, well—I suppose I’ll help find somewhere else for you. Somewhere safe.”

“No,” Credence laughed tiredly. “I do want to go back.”

“Oh. Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll, er, see what I can do.”

They passed a few more levels in silence, which Percival had been just about to break when Credence said, “This is a lot of floors.”

“Quarantine is at the very bottom, and it’s not accessible from the main lifts; this one only goes through the detention areas and Magical Law Enforcement,” Percival replied. “There’s one-hundred-and-eleven floors, if you wanted to know; we’re going past most of them.”

“The… the Woolworth building only has fifty-eight. How…?” Credence shook his head and answered his own question. “Oh, magic.”

“Yes—magic.”

“I used to love magic,” Credence mused, distantly.

Percival frowned. “You don’t love it any more?”

“Well, I just thought it would be more…” Credence searched for the word, then rephrased. “I thought it would be a little bit less… like my ma said.”

He swallowed thickly, and Percival squeezed him a little closer to his side.

“You’ve been unlucky. Most magic is really not that bad… a lot of it’s rather boring, actually.” When Credence looked up at him questioningly, he went on. “No, I mean it. There are spells for things like… oh, I don’t know. Cleaning your house. Cooking. Growing flowers. That sort of stuff.”

“Really?” He must have given a poor example, because Credence sounded amazed.

“Yes, really.” Percival couldn’t help smiling. “For just about everything—and people invent new ones all the time, too. We’re always learning.”

“Oh…”

When Percival looked at him, his eyes were watering again and he was biting his lip. He rubbed his shoulder gently. “Everything all right?”

When Credence spoke, it was with great effort. “It’s just that… a-as soon as I found out what I was, I always wanted to be part of this world, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what I would do afterwards.”

“A lot of young wizards feel that way, too,” offered Percival, awkwardly. “I know it isn’t the same, but—”

“But—but he came, and I didn’t think about it at all!” Credence suddenly burst out, ignoring him. “I was so s-s- _stupid_ —I didn’t even think if it was r-r-right—I d-didn’t think about anything except h-helping him, and keeping it a secret, and doing my chores and not getting b-bea—”

“Easy,” Percival hushed, squeezing him tighter as he felt him starting to shake again. “You’re not stupid, Credence.”

A tendril of solid smoke curled around his wrist where he was holding Credence and squeezed—when he looked down, he could see that the smoke was leaking out of his skin and through his clothes, his eyes that deathly white again.

“Credence,” he said, a gentle warning in his voice. “I really need you to stay calm, okay? Stay with me, kid.”

“I c-c-can’t,” stuttered Credence; and this time, it wasn’t merely nervous. It looked as if his mouth itself was struggling to keep its form, his face glitching and contorting. “It h-h-hurts s-so m-m-much…”

 “I know,” he said, although he certainly didn’t. He was beginning to eye the ‘close door’ button on the elevator panel nervously, ready to smash it if he had to. “I know it hurts, doll. I’ve got you.”

A few things happened in the space of the next few seconds. Credence transformed again, filling the elevator; Percival lunged for the elevator panel, hitting all of the buttons simultaneously and knocking the emergency phone off its hook; and then Credence transformed back, with both of them crashing into separate corners of the elevator. The elevator car shuddered—and stopped dead.

Percival got up out of the corner he’d crashed into and knelt over Credence to see if he was hurt; promptly, Credence sat up and coughed with a painful-sounding retch.

“Oh, good,” Percival sighed, “you’re all right.”

Unfortunately, Credence was not all right.

From where he sat on the floor, he was staring blankly at the hands he’d coughed into. When Percival peered closer he could see that they were covered in a nasty, inky-looking substance that dried and evaporated in dark plumes after a few moment’s contact with the air. Wide-eyed, Percival realised he’d seen it before—in the hallway of his house, the very first night they’d met.

“Ah… don’t panic,” he said, upon which Credence looked up at him. The same matter was dripping out of his mouth and nose, and even leaking from the corners of his startled eyes, all of it flaking away in wisps of oleaginous smoke before it could settle too long on his skin.

“W-w-what…? Why?”

The elevator jerked, and Credence fell forward onto his hands. Percival struggled to keep his own footing, but managed by bracing himself against the wall; once he was sure the elevator was still again, he stooped down onto the floor with Credence, who was sitting up again and staring at his now bare hands.

Percival took his wrist to get his attention. “Do you know what happened?”

Credence swallowed. For now, there didn’t seem to be any more of the substance coming out of him. “I—I think so. The Obscurus, again… but…”

Shivering terribly, he coughed again, into his elbow this time—Percival watched anxiously as he lowered his arm, but there was no more of the black substance clinging to his sleeve.

“Percival,” he breathed, so softly that he could hardly hear him, “I don’t want to die.”

Overcome, but with no idea what more he could do, Percival took off his coat and covered him with it in an effort to stop him shivering.

“You’re not going to die,” he said, adamantly. And then, as an afterthought, “I thought you and I were going to go out and do something about this Grindelwald. You were very clear about that.”

“Y-you said there was n-nothing we could d-do.”

“Yes, well…” Percival absently put his fingers to the corner of his lips where Credence had kissed him. “You weren’t having any of that, were you?”

Credence didn’t say anything, but he sighed and seemed to relax into the corner, pulling Percival’s coat tighter around himself. Graves wasn’t sure why, but on Credence that coat looked almost comically oversized—it was the right length, but he was still swimming in it somehow. He supposed his shoulders were a lot broader, and it’d been tailored back when he was still in top form… all the same, it was keeping him warm. It didn’t matter how he looked in it.

In the meantime, Percival examined the elevator. A few of the panels on the roof had been knocked loose, but he doubted either of them were going to be climbing up the shaft in their state. He could try to repair it with magic, but without a wand he wasn’t sure how much he could do; he didn’t even know which mechanism was broken. There was always the option of phoning for help—but that could be dangerous, too, depending on who picked up. Setting his jaw, he cast another look down at Credence. He didn’t suppose the Second Salemers had ever moonlighted as elevator technicians, either.

The floor groaned ominously beneath his feet as he moved from one side of the car to the other. Thinking better of it, he inched back over to Credence to remain within reach of him—having the insane idea that, if the elevator was going to plummet down to the basement, he could at least try to keep them together.

 _How uplifting,_ he thought. _We can die a humiliating death… as a team._

In the end, however, he didn’t have to think about it for very long. There was a grainy crackle and through the emergency phone came a faint but familiar, lilting voice.

“That you down there, Mr. Graves?”

“Queenie!” Ignoring the creak of the floor, he rushed over and grabbed the receiver. He had never been so happy to have his thoughts read. “Where are you? How did you know we were here?”

“I was listening out for you and Tina,” she said, “and I heard _someone_ being a downer.”

That was fair; he even chuckled.

“Is Credence okay?” asked Queenie, her tone suddenly worried. “I—I can’t hear him at all.”

Startled, Percival whipped his head around, expecting to see the worst—but Credence was still sitting there in the corner just as before, watching him use the phone.

“He’s fine, he’s—” Percival reconsidered. “Actually, he’s _not_ fine, but yes, he’s with me. Now, listen, I need you to help us fix the elevator.”

“I got it,” said Queenie. “You hold on tight to each other, okay?”

“ _What_?”

“While I fix the elevator.”

“…Oh.”

There was a gentle click as Queenie hung up the phone on the other end, and Percival crossed over to Credence again, offering his hands to pick him up off the floor. When Credence took them, Percival felt the tell-tale rub of old scar tissue on Credence’s palm; he squeezed his hands tighter as he drew him to his feet, though once they were face to face again he caught himself awkwardly turning away. He didn’t need Queenie picking up on his increasingly irrational inner-monologue about _that_ ; of course, now that he’d actively thought about it, she almost certainly would.

The elevator tipped and shuddered from side to side as the two of them braced against each other and the wall. From outside the car they could hear the clicks and snaps of machinery and cables resuming their correct positions. At last, with one final tremble, the car steadied in place.

“There we go,” said Percival, as they smoothly resumed their ascent with a gentle whir. Credence gave him a tired smile and flopped his head onto his shoulder again, ensuring that he was appropriately flushed when the elevator door finally opened with Queenie waiting outside.

Smiling, she stepped aside to usher them out. “Gentlemen.”

They had come out in the lobby area of Magical Law Enforcement, and the moment he saw the familiar rooms Percival tensed—but to his surprise, absolutely nobody seemed to react or even notice them as they stepped out, in spite of the two-tone chime signalling the arrival of an elevator from the detention levels. As they followed Queenie, he could see why—absolutely everyone they passed was completely engrossed in one task or the other. People were calling out to those at different stations—a time here, a location there—and others were rushing to-and-fro, distributing documents to multiple people with flicks of their wands or even attending to people with drinks and food. Above it all, a slightly different model of the Magical Exposure Threat Level Radar that hung in the main atrium was flashing red.

He’d been so engrossed in what was happening downstairs that Grindelwald’s escape had become—while still very real and distressing—only hypothetically urgent in comparison. Now that he was back in the real world, his stomach gave a lurch. This was going to be _messy_.

As they followed Queenie down the hallway, Percival kept waiting for her to say something about the way Credence was leaning on him and, moreover, the flustering effect it was having on _him_ , but she never did. Instead, she focussed on taking them around the outside of the office, ably guiding them out of sight of the distracted employees and into the break room—apparently the only place that was not buzzing with activity.

“Thank you,” Percival said to her, once he had sat Credence down on one of the room’s sofas.

“You’re welcome,” said Queenie, taking her wand out and starting to lazily go through the break room cupboards with it. Eventually she withdrew an open packet of sugar cookies. When he frowned at her, she just smiled and levitated one of the cookies, along with an apple from the fruit bowl, over to Credence. He had begun to flop down onto his side, but stopped to stare at the floating food (from his expression, Percival gathered this was not yet old to him) before gingerly taking it out of the air. “So what’s the plan?”

“We need to see a healer of some sort,” he said, “and then I need to talk to Madam Picquery.”

Queenie took out another cookie, biting into it daintily before offering him the packet. He shook his head and she shrugged, tucking it away in the cupboard again. “Madam Picquery isn’t going to be available for a while; she told Tina to keep everyone out of the way while she called an emergency meeting with the foreign dignitaries.”

“Who am I supposed to talk to, then?” he asked. “She told me I had two hours to make sure the Obscurial wasn’t a threat any more.”

“Aw, you’re not a threat, are you, honey?” Queenie beamed at Credence, who looked a touch sheepish. Then she turned back to Percival. “You shouldn’t talk about him like he’s not here.”

“My point is—that’s it, precisely. He’s not a threat,” Percival went on. Then, emboldened: “In fact, he’s a wounded party in all this and should be granted amnesty immediately.”

Queenie tilted her head toward the door, where they could still hear the commotion outside.

“That’s true and all, but I don’t think anyone but us is even thinking about him right now.” She lowered her voice. “It’s dangerous out there, Graves. Tina lost two teams already—one went dark and they lost another who went to look for ‘em. I think it’s time to start looking at less traditional options, y’know?”

“I certainly don’t know,” replied Percival, who certainly didn’t—even now his brain automatically wondered which applications they could make to the appropriate authorities in order to resolve all of this. Then again, if he were to apply Queenie’s wording to any other scenario, it could certainly be said that Credence was the least traditional option possible… and he had been thinking about him an awful lot.

Queenie turned briefly away to wave her wand again and send Credence a glass of water and take his apple core for him. He looked just as stunned as he had the first time.

“I thought you couldn’t read his mind,” Percival said.

“Don’t have to,” said Queenie, giving Credence a warm look. “You can tell when some people need looking after.”

Percival looked at Credence, who looked back at him. He didn’t know how long they stared at each other; every time he would go to tear his eyes away, something inside him would say, ‘just one more second’. Eventually, Credence smiled and bowed his head a little, and Percival reluctantly looked back at Queenie (not that there was any reason to be reluctant about that).

“All right—then what were you saying about these ‘less traditional’ options?”

“You need to get him out of here,” she said, “and I’m guessing you wouldn’t mind leaving too, huh?”

He balked. “Well… I told the President I would remain imprisoned until she could be sure I posed no risk. I suppose I should stay.”

“Without him?” asked Queenie.

Percival looked at Credence one more time. He hadn’t touched his sugar cookie, but was still holding it absently in one hand, while wearing a thousand-mile-stare. He still looked far too fragile for his liking—while he trusted Queenie…

“At this point? Absolutely not.”

Queenie nodded and began to unhook a shoulder bag she had been wearing. She opened it—then once it was open, tugged on its sides until it was open at about the width of a small chair.

“This is the second time I’ve done something like this, now,” she said, a little excitedly. Then, with mock scandal: “I hope I don’t start getting a reputation.”

“A reputation for what?”

Queenie set the bag down on the floor at his feet. “Get in.”

Percival went to help Credence up from the couch. This was ridiculous, but there was no time to question their already limited options, except for one thing:

“Is it safe?”

“Pretty sure,” said Queenie, which was much less sure than Percival would have liked. “Just be careful of my cosmetics, okay?”

“Her what?” whispered Credence, who was clinging dizzily to Percival’s side.

“Never mind,” he whispered back, and took the first uncertain step into the shoulder bag.

Behind him he heard Credence gasp as he vanished from bottom-to-top in almost an instant. He braced and landed in what was, apparently, a sizeable pile of soft, round cushions. As the brief disorientation of passing from the regular world into what could best be described as a sort of ‘pocket-dimension’ faded, he realised it _was_ in fact a pile of cushions, strategically placed under the entryway. Once he looked up, though, he saw that he was also sitting beneath a rope ladder.

 _That_ would have been nice to know a few minutes ago, but evidently Credence didn’t notice it, either; Percival picked himself up and ducked to the side just in time for him to come tumbling down after him, landing in a tangle of limbs in the cushions. Once he’d checked that he hadn’t hurt himself from the impact, Percival flopped down in the pile next to him with a tired groan.

Collecting himself, Credence sat up in the cushions to examine their surroundings with wonder. Percival supposed he would never have seen the effects of an Extension Charm before; Queenie’s was a relatively modest one, the side of a reasonably large bedroom with deep purple walls. It was mostly empty, save for an ornate dresser on one side of the room that, yes, did seem to contain cosmetics and a number of other feminine things Percival would not pretend to understand. On the other side, though, was a more formal looking desk that belied Tina’s influence—what had the sisters been doing to necessitate such a space?

 _Do they have a permit?_ Percival wondered—and then kicked himself for even thinking it. _Obviously_ not.

Other than these small touches, however, the space was mostly empty, which begged the question—why was it attached to Queenie’s shoulder bag at all? And how the hell was this the _second_ time she’d ‘done something like this’? His world was getting crazier and crazier, if Queenie Goldstein of all people was now a serial people-smuggler on top of everything else.

It occurred to Graves that he had no idea where she was even taking them… but if he’d learned anything about Queenie in the past few days alone, it was that sometimes it was best to leave his preconceptions aside and have a little faith. After all, she hadn’t once let him down, no matter how rude he may have been to her.

Sighing, he lay his head back on the cushions. Now that they had stopped moving, even for a moment, all kinds of trivial things came to mind—if Poppy was all right, if Claudius had been fed, when he could change his clothes—followed promptly by a stream of decidedly non-trivial things, including: Credence had kissed him.

 _Kissed_ him.

He chanced a tiny glance over at Credence, who had apparently just been daring to do the same—both of them looked away again instantly. Shortly, Percival sat up from where he’d been lying in the cushions and moved a little closer to him. There was no need for the poor boy to feel any more awkward than he already did on a daily basis.

“Do you… want this, Percival?” asked Credence, out of nowhere.

“Excuse me?” Percival’s eyebrows had raised in alarm, but he realised that Credence was offering him the sugar cookie he’d been holding in the break room. “Oh. Er… no, I don’t really like sweets. Thank you, though.”

Credence turned the cookie in an anxious circle, as if unsure what to do with it. Percival frowned.

“Do _you_ not like sweets?”

The question seemed to bother Credence, who chewed the inside of his lip. “I… well, it’s not… I…”

 “You’ve never had them before?”

“I have,” Credence said, but sounded a little queasy. “He bought me a pastry, once.”

Percival put two and two together. “That’s the only sweet you’ve ever had? So, you’re worried if you have another, you might feel…”

With a distant look in his eyes, Credence leaned into his side. “I had… icing on my lip. He brushed it off with his thumb. I wanted… I felt…”

Jerking away from him uncomfortably, he bowed his head.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I said we’d work on the apologies, remember?” Percival took him by the shoulder and gently guided him back against his side. “If I’m not upset, and you didn’t do anything wrong, then there’s no need. So, why are you sorry?”

For the first time in a long time, he was beginning to feel in his element—as if the innate desire for justice and need to protect that had driven him to become an Auror in the first place finally had an appropriate application outside the workplace. He’d thought it had been about rules, about structure, but he’d been wrong; he’d lost sight of why his job had been so important to him.

People like Credence were why he did his work—why he did anything at all.

Against his shoulder, Credence squirmed, then finally cracked again, his voice stretched thin as if every word were a painful exertion.

“Because I—because I did _things_ with him, while he was pretending to be you, and… and I let him, and I wanted to, and—and if I were you, I-I’d hate me for it. I’d… I’d think that I was _disgusting_.”

“…Oh.”

Even to suspect it had been one thing, but for Credence to confirm it? To _know_? He felt sick thinking about someone seducing Credence with his face, sweet-talking him with his voice, holding him with his arms.

All at once he couldn’t help his only, ice-cold reaction: he _was_ disgusted. The fact that he knew it was in no way Credence’s fault didn’t make it any easier to accept. Was he wrong to be upset about that? Did that make Grindelwald right?

_Are you upset that I did it? Or just upset that it wasn’t you?_

The slow thaw that had begun to occur around his guarded heart suddenly froze solid again; he looked away. It wouldn’t be right, Percival thought, to tell him about the images that had been pushed into his mind unbidden by the visitor at his cell door—or about the nagging realisations he’d already had that something about the relationship between Credence and his impersonator was off. Any of that would only make Credence feel worse, but… what was there to say?

“No… it’s not like that,” he said, hearing his own voice as if it were far away. “I don’t hate you, Credence.”

When he thought of Credence, he saw an increasingly fragmented image of a man on the edge. A quivering casualty of a conflict that had wreaked havoc on the wizarding world. A cunning survivor, resourceful and resilient and, yes, ruthless when he had to be. A storm of chaos, all sharp, writhing black and bestial screams. Fleetingly, among it all, a passionate young man, rising above his harsh circumstances—taking him by the lapels and drawing him in for a kiss.

Then, there was another image: a person who was aspects of many of those things, being used by the person who had taken Percival’s life away… and liking it.

“Percival?”

His heart ached. Credence was waiting desperately for an answer he didn’t know if he would ever have; or for absolution he didn’t know how to give. Right now, when Percival felt himself fall into the epicentre of his gaze, he might as well have been stranded in the middle of the ocean.

“Please, try to get some rest,” he said, reaching over to wrap his coat around him tighter, like an embrace he couldn’t give. “You look exhausted.”

Just as his own defences had been triggered, he watched as Credence’s went up in a heartbeat.

“Thank you… Mr. Graves.”

 


	12. A Mind-Reader Walks Into A Bakery

# 

_I’m so afraid of you_  
 _Because I know that you know how I love you_  
 _If you should break my poor heart in two_  
 _What would I do? I’m at the mercy of you._  
(Elmer Feldkamp, 1932)

When Queenie opened the bag, Percival found himself and Credence in a place that he had never seen before.

They were in a modest, but comfortable apartment that smelled pleasantly of freshly baked-goods, stepping out in front of a cozy-looking sofa and pair of armchairs. Queenie stood before them, and behind her one of the armchairs contained a friendly-looking man whose waistcoat was gently dusted with flour on one side. As he turned his gaze on this man, he saw him stiffen slightly; he could only assume that they had been familiar with him—or, well, “him”—at some point, but in any case, Percival didn’t recognise him.

“Percival Graves,” he said, politely extending his hand. Though he still looked a little nervous, the man gamely gave his hand a firm shake.

“Kowalski. Jacob Kowalski.” He looked at Queenie with a smile. “Geez, Queenie, you weren’t kidding. And… is this him?”

Credence, who had apparently been trying to melt into the background behind Percival and looked mortified to be addressed at all, dipped his head courteously. “Credence.”

“Hey, kid!” Jacob smiled openly at him, and Percival felt himself warm slightly toward this man as Credence gave a timid smile back and shuffled forward slightly. “It’s great to meet you both—well, properly, anyway. Queenie says it’s a loooong story.”

Queenie giggled and flopped down on the arm of the chair with him. “Jacob’s a good friend. He’s offered to take care of you until things blow over a bit.”

“That is no small favour, Mr. Kowalski,” said Percival, gravely. “Anything you can do is hugely appreciated, though of course I don’t expect you to risk your reputation for us. If we cause you any problems with MACUSA….”

“Oh, ah… I don’t think that’s gonna be too much of a problem, Mr. Graves,” said Jacob, with a slightly nervous laugh. “I really wouldn’t worry about it. Actually—”

“No,” Percival insisted, “I may be in an unusual predicament at the moment, but I will do all I can to help if this reflects poorly on you.”

“Jacob ain’t connected to MACUSA, Mr. Graves,” Queenie explained. She arched an eyebrow slightly. “At _all_.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Percival, frowning. “Everyone’s—”

Suddenly, he followed the pointed gazes of the other people in the room around the apartment.

It was a normal apartment. Almost… too normal. No floating laundry, no moving portraits… and just then, on the radio, a crackling voice announced: ‘in other news, President Coolidge has—’

“Wait a minute.” The penny dropped, and Percival approached Queenie with an incredulous look. “Is this a _joke_? You brought us into a _No-Maj_ apartment when we’re already in this much trouble? I’m aware you and your sister have played fast and loose with the rules before, but _this_ …!”

Queenie didn’t flinch, and even leaned closer against the man in the armchair, laying her delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Jacob’s risked his neck for us before, Mr. Graves; we couldn’t have taken down Grindelwald without his help. He’s my friend.” She smiled coolly and nodded her head toward Credence. “Just like he’s your friend. Y’see?”

“Hey, buddy.” Jacob tapped him lightly on the arm with the backs of his fingers; though still not unkind, he sounded stern. Percival prickled immediately at the touch. “We ain’t gonna have a problem, are we? I kinda just wanted to help you out.”

Still tense, Percival cast a questioning look at Credence—who, once again, looked shocked to be consulted at all.

“I—I don’t mind, Mr. Graves,” he said, eyes on the floor.

Considering his ongoing ordeal, he was holding it together remarkably well; but Percival saw the tell-tale tremble in his limbs and knew that he still hadn’t rested properly in several days. They’d already asked too much of Queenie, and she had done her best. Besides, Percival knew that he didn’t have the means to relocate them anywhere safer himself right now.

“Fine,” he said, tersely, “we’ll try not to impose.”

“There’s a ‘we’ now?” asked Queenie, brightly. He could only imagine what colourful thoughts she got off him in the following moments, but he just shrugged and turned his face away slightly. He couldn’t help checking Credence’s reaction, but was surprised to see that his expression hadn’t changed; he hadn’t been thrown off by her comment at all. That bothered Percival for a moment, their conversation in the shoulder bag still raw in his mind. It hadn’t ended quite as either of them might have hoped… but it hadn’t been _that_ damaging, had it?

Soon, though, he was being swept up in preparations for the evening. Jacob showed them the spare bedroom—which Percival initially thought was a rather large closet—and finally explained why they had been smelling pastry ever since they stepped out of the shoulder bag (“we’re above my bakery,” he told them, “sometimes my assistant sleeps in here if something comes up”). He insisted they use the shower (and though the suggestion one or both of them have a wash would have probably been a fair enough criticism, it seemed to be genuinely borne of kindness) and offered to wash their clothes for them and find them clean ones; all of this, of course, after they’d eaten something.

On the whole, there was no way to describe Jacob Kowalski other than that he was a very good man who seemed to honestly _like_ helping. In spite of this, Percival couldn’t help but feel uncertain and suspicious of anyone who was overly nice to him. The last few days had been so full of setbacks and things being taken from him that he was finding it difficult to believe anything this good was coming for _free._

Surprising him, however, Credence accepted every single one of Jacob’s offers with quiet deference but absolutely no hesitation. It was then that Percival began to look back on Credence’s time at his house with shameful hindsight; before, he’d assumed that Credence hadn’t made much use of the house’s amenities because he didn’t want anything, but now he realised that it might have been because he’d simply never offered.

Now, that seemed completely monstrous, but at the time, he hadn’t even thought of it. Every day had been spent in his own, insular world, inspecting with a fine-tooth-comb every inch of the life that had been taken from him and then given back. Someone else’s hair on his pillow. An overfed cat. Clothes and books where he hadn’t left them. A house-elf gone and another Confunded. Wine-red roses on the arch where he’d grown white ones. Taunting notes on the letter his ex-wife had left him.

Perhaps somewhere in that world of the past there had been room for a person who was with him right then and there, but if there was Percival hadn’t been able to find it, too absorbed in his own personal tragedies. There was a lot he owed Credence.

Then again, maybe Credence didn’t need to get those things from him. He watched him all night being fussed over by Jacob and Queenie, which seemed to surprise but not displease him. Jacob found him a shirt that was far too big, then another that had been left behind by a bakery employee that was far too small; he made him laugh about it, saying he was not too big or small but ‘just right’ which seemed to be some weird No-Maj inside joke that Percival didn’t understand at all. Queenie still couldn’t seem to read Credence’s mind, but she still could make him blush with her educated guesses, kindly offering things he seemed uncertain of before he could ask them.

Presently, Queenie also asked if they would let her take look at their injuries; she wasn’t a healer, she said, but she’d do her best. Percival was too tired to do anything but submit, and soon Queenie had done a much better job than he had of mending his arm and leg. Afterwards, he hovered as she examined Credence, finding several injuries with no obvious cause—a sprained muscle here, a stress-fracture there. A sinking feeling that had been nagging at Percival all day suddenly worsened, and he left the room in a guilt-ridden daze.

How long did Credence have until he followed the fate of every other Obscurial? He had already lived twice as long as any other known sufferer of the condition; even with a positive outlook, he couldn’t possibly have much longer.

 _I lied,_ thought Percival, thinking of the foolish promise he had made to find a way to save Credence. Then, much more darkly: _I lied that I would help him, just like him._

Later, once Credence had left to have a shower and the two of them seemed to feel they were alone, Percival walked in on Jacob and Queenie flirting like there was no tomorrow. Before he could cough politely to let them know he was there, Queenie looked up at him—so he simply raised an eyebrow, nodded, and exited immediately.

She’d been quite right earlier; he wasn’t exactly in any position to judge. Rather, in his opinion, he was in prime position to have judgment passed on _him_ , and the fact that nobody had done it yet was making him restless.

When the four of them sat down to eat together, Percival found himself inching out of the conversation. At first, the topic of conversation had been the state of things at MACUSA, but all Queenie seemed to know was that at the time they’d left and Tina had passed out of her ‘hearing’, things were still very chaotic—Jacob had set aside a plate for her, but Queenie soon put it away in the oven to keep. It turned out that only two out of four of them were very good at conversation, but although Credence still looked tired didn’t have much to say, he seemed to be enjoying listening, and even dipped his toes into the tide of conversation once or twice, often in response to a good-natured remark by Jacob.

Partway through dinner, he met Percival’s eyes, then quickly avoided them again. Immediately, Percival stood up, excused himself and went to take a shower, ignoring Queenie’s offer of dessert.

When he came back, Credence had gone to bed and the other two were having tea and coffee—or rather, Jacob was drinking coffee while Queenie was sitting primly with a glass of milk. As he had all evening, he felt as if he were intruding; but they asked him to sit and so he sat, fading out as their conversation washed over him.

An unfortunate downside of becoming so insular over the past few weeks was that once he started to overthink, it became very difficult to remain focussed of his surroundings—so as he had been sitting there, contemplating the very chaotic day he had jut had, he didn’t notice Queenie until she moved to sit right next to him, sliding a mug toward him.

“Jacob made you coffee,” she said. Being snapped so drastically from his thoughts, Percival’s mind immediately latched onto an insignificant detail. Queenie blinked, then laughed. “It doesn’t sound dumb! See: ‘coffee’.”

 It still sounded like ‘caw-fee’ to Percival, but he let it go, nodded, and picked up the mug. A moment later he blanched as he took a sip—it was stone cold.

“It woulda been warm if you drank it when he gave it to you, but you were in a mood, so he just put it down and left.”

Only then did he realise Jacob wasn’t there any more, and put down the cup again.

“I wasn’t in a mood,” he refuted. “I was… thinking.”

“You’re thinking real loud, Mr. Graves,” Queenie said plainly. When he cast his eyes down, she sighed; when he looked over at her, he saw she had lowered her gaze, too. “I’m sorry. I know you hate it—but I can’t help it, you know? When people hurt, I hear it clearer than anything.”

She took out her wand and waved it lazily. The coffee cup floated away, emptied itself in the sink and began to wash itself.

“You know none of this is your fault, don’t you? I know after that after what he told you—”

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t even start. You leave him _out_ of this.”

“You still think you’re part of what happened,” she went on. “That you have to earn forgiveness from everyone, because of what Grindelwald did. You think if you apologise to him—if you feel guilty enough—then you can forgive yourself, too.”

Seething, Percival got to his feet and pushed his chair back in roughly. “I told you to _stop_.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Queenie said firmly, standing to meet him. “When you get angry, it’s because you’re afraid. You’re afraid because you’re not in control. Never letting other people in is _not_ part of being in control.”

“If you were as good at reading my mind as you thought,” he snarled, “then maybe you’d realise that I don’t let people in because I don’t _want_ them in.”

Unsurprisingly, Queenie was not fooled. “Then what about him?”

“What _about_ him?” Percival snapped. An image suddenly came to his mind—Credence behind Tina, hearing him. _I had him under control. I was going to pry him for information before handing him over._ That face; disappointed, not surprised. The realisation that hurting Credence hurt him, too.

“You _know_ what,” said Queenie, simply. “It’s just that … after everything that’s happened to you, I know it must feel awful lonely. A guy like that—he ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Percival thought about Eustace Barebone’s journals, and about everything else he had ever heard about Obscurials. He thought of Credence’s tired eyes and his clammy skin; he saw him being swallowed by the black smoke—ripped apart—in pieces—gone.

“Oh…” Queenie shook her head. “You don’t know that, honey.”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” he grumbled.

“Graves,” she said, suddenly. He blinked, then supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that she could so easily switch to addressing him in the manner he was most comfortable with. “You know I’m not just saying this to upset you, right? I’m worried about you. _Both_ of you.”

“There isn’t a…” Percival set his jaw very hard. “…a ‘both of us’.”

“There could be,” she said, “if you’d talk to him. It’s like you _want_ him to hate you, even though you really don’t… and he _doesn’t_.”

When he tried to stalk off, she stepped into his path.

“Stop it! No, you know I can’t read his mind, but _look_ at him. What are you so afraid of?”

Silence. A thought rose to the top, then was replaced with another, and another, and another…

“Please, Queenie.” He lowered his voice. “No more.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “I told you, I’m not trying to hurt you, I just… can’t not hear it.”

“I know.”

“But—I think I got it.” She lay her hand gently on his arm and squeezed. “Sorry for pushing. How ‘bout I leave you to you?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“By the way,” she said, as she started to leave. “Dessert’s on the table.”

The light was on in the spare bedroom, and Percival felt sure that Credence would have noticed his shadow peering under the door; still, it took him a while to knock. When he did, there was no answer, but after a moment the door squeaked open. As he entered, Credence was already walking back to the bedroll Queenie had conjured up on the floor next to the actual bed, where he’d already disturbed the covers.

Percival cleared his throat. When Credence turned his head, he showed him the chocolate chip cookie he’d brought with him from the dining room.

“I thought you didn’t like sweets,” said Credence, after a decidedly cool pause.

“I don’t like _most_ sweets.”

Credence started to sit down.

“Wait,” said Percival, sitting down on the edge of the bed and patting the space beside him. With a little trepidation, Credence edged over to sit beside him. “I need to talk to you about earlier.”

“All right,” said Credence, warily.

“I didn’t… explain myself particularly well.” Percival broke the cookie into halves, kept one, and handed the other piece to Credence, who took it cautiously. “You deserved better.”

“It’s fine. I-I knew it would be—I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Listen: I don’t hate you, and… you’re not disgusting.” He bolstered himself and went on. “I think _he’s_ disgusting, for doing that to you. For lying. It’s not your fault that he tricked you—even people who knew me didn’t realise. How were you supposed to know?”

Credence’s eyes went wide with a kind of awe that he hadn’t seen from him before.

“I’m not him; I’m me. So I’d be upset if you wanted to… er, be close to me, just because of whatever… he did.” He felt his own face flushing again. “But I could never be angry with you for something like that, Credence, and I don’t think you’re disgusting. You’re… quite the opposite, if you must know.”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Credence nodded, squeezing the cookie in his hand until a couple of crumbs tumbled over his fist. Percival reached out for his free hand and fumbled with it until their fingers were securely entwined.

“If you still want to share this with me, it’s up to you… but it’ll be different from whatever it was with him. Is that all right?”

For the first time, Credence looked close to tears that had nothing to do with unhappiness. “Percival… I…”

“I—I meant the sweets,” said Percival, quickly. “I don’t want you to have to associate sweets with—with…”

But by now it didn’t matter what he said. Credence caved against his side, leaning into it as firmly as he could and burying his face in his neck; yet his arms remained stiffly at his side. Unsure how to reciprocate, Percival simply put one arm around his shoulders, firm enough to keep him there but loose enough for him to slip away.

They leaned against one another like that for a long time. Now and then, Credence would lift his head slightly as if expecting him to start pulling away, but each time Percival would rub the back of his neck lazily to settle him and he would flop back against him easily.

When they finally separated, it wasn’t by much; they stayed shoulder to shoulder to eat a half each of the cookie.

All things considered, there were much worse ways the two of them could be wrapping up the day. They were as safe as they could be, relatively unscathed and, most importantly, they were together. What ‘together’ meant for them, now and in the days to come, was yet to be defined. Whatever it was, Percival thought with a sidelong look at Credence, who was finishing the cookie with a slight, tired smile; they would be able to work it out.

Finally, after a long but, this time, comfortable silence, Credence asked, “‘Doll’?”

With a flush, Percival feigned ignorance. “Beg your pardon?”

“You called me ‘doll’,” Credence said, a little shyly—but Percival could hear an undertone in his voice that was almost _smug_. “You said it twice.”

“Er… yes, well…” Percival pretended to be dusting crumbs off his hands. “If it bothers you, I won’t do it again. I suppose it… slipped out.”

 “No… I like it.”

“You… do?” He tried not to sound too relieved. “I thought it might be a little too… well, familiar.”

“Isn’t this?” Credence nodded between them, where the gap had closed. “Familiar, I mean?”

He kept blinking at Percival’s lips, watching them as he spoke. For a moment he thought he must have had cookie crumbs on his face; then it came together and he smiled.

“You know, doll,” said Percival, lifting Credence’s chin to kiss him softly but surely, sweetly, “I guess it is.”


	13. The President's Burden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that this chapter is probably the last time anything warm and fuzzy will happen for a while. After this, we're heading into the last act, which is almost done--but I'm editing it with extreme prejudice as it's very important to me to do it properly! I'm so sorry; I always worry it's not quite right, but I'm just gonna have to trust myself.

_Don't know what's comin' tomorrow—_  
_Maybe it's trouble and sorrow—_  
_But we'll travel the road,_  
_Sharing our load,_  
_Side by side._  
(Nick Lucas, 1927)

Morning brought a pale beam of light shining through the window of Jacob Kowalski’s spare room, where Percival woke to find himself on top of the bed-covers and still in his day clothes, with Credence Barebone curled up against his side.

He had seen him sleeping before, but not like this—he had always looked drained or fitful, and this Credence was truly at peace. Percival sat up very carefully so as not to disturb him as he got out of bed, but couldn’t resist briefly laying his hand on his head. That was all it took for Credence to stir, roll over and look up at him sleepy-eyed; Percival blushed immediately. He felt like a young man again, though he wasn’t sure if it was in the elated sense so much as it was in the ‘constantly becoming distracted by foolish things’ sense.

Credence hummed and leaned into his hand. Reluctantly, Percival stood up after quickly ruffling his hair. Now that the bowl cut hadn’t been maintained in a while, it was starting to get a little shaggy; but he wore the dishevelment well enough that it looked almost intentional, so Percival didn’t have any complaint. The clothes were a continual work in progress—Queenie had shrunk one of Jacob’s shirts to fit him the night before, but it _still_ didn’t quite suit him. Credence seemed to look uncomfortable in whatever he was wearing; not that it even mattered what he looked like any more. Before he could realise it of himself, Percival had begun to reach the point where everything Credence did was beautiful to him.

They might have been very different on the surface; then again, the more he learned about Credence, the less he felt that was truly so. It wasn’t anything like what he’d felt for Dahlia—nothing was—but it was nothing like anything else he had ever felt, either. When he really thought about it, he was beginning to think that none of those other feelings had ever even come close.

Of course, it was too soon to say. Neither of them seemed to be the type to rush in, and even though their guards had come down a little, Percival knew it would be a long time before things truly fell into place. For now, it was enough that they’d simply managed to get the subject out in the open instead of perpetually choking on it.

As they left the bedroom together, Credence fell into step next to him, so close that he was rarely more than a few inches away, drifting a half-step behind. Percival mustn’t have even thought about it too loudly, because even Queenie looked surprised when they walked into the kitchen like that—but only for a moment, after which she gave a fond sort of smile. She was at the stove with Jacob, and the two of them were making buckwheat pancakes with a mix of magic and what Percival guessed the kids were calling ‘elbow-grease’; in other words, sometimes Jacob would flip the pancakes with a flick of the pan and sometimes Queenie would assist with a flick of her wand. Other times, one or both of them would flick batter onto the other person’s face, which would be shortly followed by giggling.

This was not what drew Percival’s gaze most as they entered the kitchen, however, because at the table was Tina. She was sitting with her head in her hands, wearing the same clothes Percival had last seen her in a day ago. All of a sudden, the world outside of him and Credence and their immediate situation came rushing back, for her posture required no explanation.

Grindelwald was still at large.

“Tina.” It seemed strange to feel so reassured just by seeing her, but he quickly took the seat beside her. Credence followed him; as Tina looked up and saw them both, a smile broke out on her drained face.

“You’re all right,” she sighed; and though at first, Percival thought she was only talking to Credence, she looked at him with the same relieved expression. “Thank goodness.”

“Thanks to Queenie,” Percival acknowledged hastily, feeling it was only fair.

Queenie herself turned her head to beam at them; she had gotten batter in her hair, which Jacob noticed and started trying to fix… which in turn, only seemed to make it worse. She didn’t seem to mind though, and let him fuss with it for a moment longer before removing it an instant with her wand. He gazed up at her adoringly and Percival, feeling as though he were intruding, quickly looked away.

Meanwhile, Tina looked as if she were going to nod off on the spot. Credence was watching her anxiously.

“Tina,” said Percival, gently tapping the table next to her to get her attention. He had lowered his voice so it was still urgent, but not threatening. “Talk to me. What’s going on out there?”

Tina closed her eyes and let out a long breath through her nose. “Didn’t find him. Obviously. I had to call the teams back; he could be anywhere by now. We thought we were close, but… we lost seven people, Graves. _Seven_.”

He couldn’t say anything but the truth. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

“I have to tell their families.” She wrung her hands. “But the worst thing is… we _failed_. What am I supposed to say to them? That it was for nothing?”

Percival thought about the thousand times he had been in a similar position, though to be fair it had never been quite on this scale. For Tina, the stakes were not just the opinions of magical America, but the entire world.

“You say you’re sorry. You thank them for what their loved ones did. Then you… ask if there’s anything they need.” He shrugged one shoulder slightly. “And if it’s something you can give, then you do it. No questions.”

Tina nodded gloomily. Then the two of them bowed their heads and simply sat in silence, hands folded. Beside him, Credence was sitting very quietly, and his eyes were slightly unfocussed as if he weren’t paying attention—but when Percival turned to look at him, he noticed him change his posture slightly under his gaze and realised he was perfectly aware of his surroundings.

Queenie and Jacob, too, seemed to have wilfully withdrawn from the conversation to give them some space; but after everyone had been quiet for a long time and the only sound besides the sizzling pan was a breezy jazz song playing on the radio, they interrupted by placing a plate of pancakes in front of each of them.

“So,” said Queenie, “these two gents got stuck in the detention level elevator last night…”

“…before you heroically rescued us, yes,” finished Percival. Jacob, who had sat down across from him, looked pleased with that assessment of events.

“Then I put ‘em in our shoulder bag and came back here,” Queenie added. “I don’t think nobody paid me any mind.”

“About that Extension Charm,” Percival said. “Is it—”

“Actually, we _do_ have a permit,” said Tina, cutting him off. “Or at least, I do. Mr. Scamander uses one to contain his creatures. Madam Picquery said I could test its applications in transporting… er, live evidence.”

“I wasn’t going to judge,” said Percival, although he couldn’t help feeling a little relieved by her interjection. “Who cast it, though?”

“I did; but Queenie did the decorating,” she replied, tiredly shovelling a piece of pancake into her mouth. A fleck of syrup was caught on the corner of her lip when she turned to Percival a few moments later—he almost took a napkin and went to wipe it off.

“It’s nothing compared to the suitcase,” added Queenie, to give Tina a break.

Jacob’s face lit up. “Oh, _man_ , the suitcase…!”

The pair of them started to rattle off the suitcase’s many brilliant qualities (“the water bubbles!” “you know how it feels like there’s a real breeze?” “oh, the cave—” “the _creatures_!”). Tina gradually rejoined the conversation, mainly to correct or add details the others had forgotten; she seemed to remember it all with incredible clarity, even considering her tired state.

At first, Percival was content to simply sit and listen (particularly when Credence, perhaps feeling that nobody was watching, subtly took his hand under the table); but after a while, the small-talk started to make him nervous, as if a ticking time-bomb was lying ignored on the table in front of them, nested between the maple syrup and the fruit bowl.

It was Queenie, of course, who sensed this and subtly wove his worries back into the conversation. “Tina… maybe you should tell the boys how things are going at work?”

Tina’s eyes flickered away almost guiltily. “With all that’s happened, I don’t think anyone’s even realised they’re gone.”

“What about the President?” Percival asked. As busy as she was, he found it hard to believe she simply hadn’t noticed he was missing; then again, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

At that, Tina set down her fork. “I’ve only seen her once this morning, to brief her. She was with the dignitaries almost all night—they’re giving her hell.”

 _They better not be,_ thought Percival, protectively. How many times had he sat in on those meetings with her, a last line of defence she had never—through skill, charm and cunning—actually had to use? Perhaps he had already burned his bridges with her far beyond repair, but the thought of her facing this fire alone irked him.

“One thing,” said Tina, and this she seemed to remember quite clearly. “Mary-Lou’s journals are gone. I asked if I could have them for the investigation, but she won’t tell me where they went.”

“They’re… my journals, actually,” said Credence, who had been silent since he had sat down, startling them. When they all looked at him, he lowered his voice a touch. “Because… she’s dead now, and I’m her eldest.”

Percival nodded in support of his statement.

Tina looked a little less sure. “You’re right, but I think it’s going to be a bit more complicated than that.”

She eyed the radio on the table, which was still blaring cheerfully.

“I gotta get back to the office soon—can we hear what’s happening?”

Obliging, Queenie took out her wand and tapped the radio with it. The tuning dial slid back and forth, then finally slowed to a halt with a final-sounding ‘click’. From the speaker came a statement that made Percival’s jaw clench.

“ _—and calls for President Picquery’s immediate resignation._ ”

Glowering at it, he reached over and turned up the volume. Then, at once, the presenter cut to a familiar voice.

“ _I’m sorry to say it; but President Picquery has shown herself to be incapable of leading our community in a manner that protects us from our non-magical neighbours and each other. Furthermore, her mishandling of the Auror Department already resulted in a catastrophic breach of Magical Security, which is no doubt related to this one._ ”

Queenie clapped her hands over her mouth. Tina and Percival were both glaring daggers at the radio.

“ _Former Head of Magical Security, Percival Graves, was_ replaced _by Gellert Grindelwald—we all remember the scandal after_ that _—”_

“Do we, now,” Percival growled.

“ _—but we weren’t to know that his, frankly, inappropriate relationship with Madam Picquery would lead to yet another massive security breach. He clearly influenced her to relax security in what should have been a critical location.”_

_“And you know this personally, Mr. Fontaine?”_

Now all of them went very rigid—across the table, Percival saw Jacob confirm something with Queenie and guessed that she had filled him in. He was more concerned with Credence, who was gripping onto the edge of the kitchen table so tightly he half expected him to gouge holes in the wood.

“ _I was there when Gellert Grindelwald escaped. The facilities were woefully inadequate—I understand that they are still using outdated protocols established by Mr. Graves.”_

_“Mr. Fontaine, our sources tell us you and the Graves family were acquainted in the past as well.”_

_“Well, yes, yes. I was quite close with the late Mr. Graves; his son is rather a different story. Now, if we look at his track record, there were already some disturbing trends—warning signs, if you will, that he might be susceptible to this sort of… brainwashing. At least, that is what he would have us believe it is—in truth—_ ”

The radio shorted out as Percival stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Jacob’s eyes widened at it. For a moment Percival glared at him, daring him to say something about the radio—but he pushed it out of the way and leaned toward him over the table.

“Oh my god, pal… I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Percival, having left his pancakes almost untouched. “I’m going to make him _pay_.”

Credence stood up, too, taking him cautiously by the arm. “Wh-what are you going to do?”

“Everyone, sit back down,” warned Tina, as Queenie paused halfway off her seat. “Nobody is going back to MACUSA without me. Mr. Graves, I know you’re upset, but we just got you _out_ —that’s not going to happen twice.”

“I know,” said Percival, remaining standing. Credence’s grip on his sleeve became a little more insistent.

“When they said those things about you before—right after they rescued you—there _was_ scandal, but it died down almost straight away,” Tina pointed out, “because nobody responded to it or gave it the time of day. If you rush in now and make a scene, you’ll just validate him.”

“This is different. Whatever they said then—” It occurred to Percival that the reason he’d never been affected by the scandal his return had caused was that Seraphina had immediately and intentionally insulated him from it. “— _they_ weren’t Fontaine. People are going to listen to this.”

“Could make the President look real bad,” said Queenie. She had leaned a little closer to Jacob, who, although it looked as if he were beginning to get a little lost in the politics of it all, was listening very intently. “Even worse than something like this already would.”

“Which is why we need to get back as soon as we can,” said Percival, quickly. “Our escape will undermine her and support Fontaine’s point. Tina, you have to take us back.”

“‘Us’?” asked Credence, letting go of his sleeve slowly.

Now everyone was looking at Percival depreciatively.

“Me,” he revised, quickly. “Of course, you…”

He looked at him and suddenly couldn’t _stop_ again, falling into deep dark eyes that seemed to know him deeper than he’d ever thought anyone could.

“…You should stay here and… be safe.”

“He’s welcome— _you’re_ welcome, Credence,” said Jacob. “As long as you need.”

“Thank you,” said Credence, who hadn’t looked away from Percival either, “but… no.”

Eyes wide with worry, Tina shook her head. “Credence, it’s not safe out there—for you most of all. With all that’s happened, the President might make us…”

“Kill me,” he said, finally tearing his eyes away from Percival’s. “I know, but I’m too… I’m not… not _right_. I could… hurt someone again, if I stay here. I don’t want…”

“If you go back…” Tina looked from Credence to Percival, then back to Credence who she looked at very seriously. Percival wasn’t sure exactly what was passing between them. “You should know I can’t protect you.”

“You shouldn’t be so worried about protecting me,” Credence went on, his tentative voice keeping them all rapt even if he was clearly not used to being the center of attention. He kept speaking hurriedly, then pausing, as if he expected to be interrupted any moment. “ _I’m_ the one they should be afraid of.”

The room went very quiet. None of them were ignorant of what Credence’s Obscurus could do—none could pretend they didn’t know the risks—and yet, for a person who seemed to think very little of himself, he had somehow become very important to them. There must have been something so incredible, so magnetic about Credence to inspire such a sense of protectiveness and loyalty; but then, Percival knew that already.

He seemed to have talked himself out and had gone still. Percival didn’t have anything to add, so he stepped forward and put his hand on his shoulder silently. He wasn’t sure what Queenie got out of him in that particular moment, but whatever it was made her flash him a small smile.

Nobody could bring themselves to try and talk Credence out of his decision; if they had Percival was sure they would have been wasting their time. For his own part, he wasn’t prepared to tell anyone who could destroy half of New York on a bad day what he could and couldn’t do.

So shortly after they had finished their breakfast (Jacob and Queenie both insisted), the Goldstein sisters took each of them by the arm, Percival with Queenie and Credence with Tina, and Apparated back to MACUSA, little knowing what might await them there.

They landed a safe distance away—it was not possible to simply Apparate directly in and out of headquarters themselves, nor was it proper to Apparate into the middle of a busy street near a popular landmark. As they made their way toward the Woolworth building, blending dubiously with the New York crowds, they reviewed the plan; Tina would explain that she had removed Percival and Credence from headquarters for safety reasons and that they had remained secure, and Percival would make his case for Credence’s amnesty.

Perhaps it was stupid to think of this as a situation that could be resolved with a well-reasoned application to the proper authorities; but he had been thinking about it since the idea had first popped into his head the day before, formatting it like an official report in his mind, though there had not exactly been time to write it down.

Firstly: his case that Credence was a victim, not an accomplice of Grindelwald, and was therefore not culpable for his actions while being manipulated. Secondly: his case that the Obscurus was a hazard, but not an unmanageable one, and that he would personally oversee its treatment and eventual removal at all costs. There was something missing—something he knew he desperately needed but couldn’t place. In the back of his mind he feared that his word would no longer be worth much to Seraphina, or anyone else for that matter. Having him around was proving to be more of a liability than most people would be willing to bear with, and he was pragmatic enough to know it; but for Seraphina, and for Credence, he could do no less than try.

“Ready?” asked Queenie, as they stood before the Woolworth building, which looked larger and more imposing than ever.

Percival saw Tina reach out and squeeze Credence’s hand protectively; he realised Queenie’s arm had also tightened on his. Bridging the gap, he lay his hand on Credence’s back so that all four of them were connected in a small, but steadfast chain as Queenie opened the door.

The lobby was swarming as they entered, not with Aurors, but with journalists. They were clamoring around the elevators and information desks, being kept at bay by exasperated looking staff. (Percival was no lip-reader, but he could clearly visualise some colourful language coming out of Red, the goblin bellboy.) This time, however, the chaos would not serve as cover for them. As soon as they were within sight, some of the more attentive journalists recognised him and Tina.

“Mr. Graves!”

“Ms. Goldstein!”

The four of them froze as the masses turned toward them; and then were drowned in a volley of white camera-flashes as the crowd descended on them as one. A few questions soared above the staticky roar of sound.

“Why aren’t you in jail?”

“Where were you when Grindelwald broke out?”

They pushed their way through the crowd, Percival feeling as safe as he possibly could with the Goldsteins flanking him and Credence. (Once, he even saw Queenie flick off the hand of someone who reached out to grab her as easily as if they were a child.) But the mob was relentless, hounding them all the way to the door of the elevator.

“Ms. Goldstein, did you _leave_ MACUSA during an emergency?”

“Mr. Graves, how did you help him escape?”

Credence drifted slightly closer to Tina, who automatically clutched him tighter. One look and Percival could see that the commotion didn’t just annoy him—he was _petrified_. In response, he and the Goldsteins all drew tighter around him to shield him from the crowd, but this proved to be a poorly thought move.

“Who is _that_?”

“Where did he come from?”

It happened almost in an instant; the focus had shifted from him and Tina to Credence, the unknown. He saw Credence’s eyes beginning to widen as he stumbled along at Tina’s side. Then, he began to clench his jaw and blink hard as if holding something back. Too late, Percival realised what was happening.

“Tina, get him out of here!”

She turned toward him, then her face vanished—as between them, Credence exploded into a column of black smoke that hurtled into the air with a whip-like crack. Suddenly amid the camera flashes were screams, gasps of shock and awe. People were running for cover, although a few were foolishly standing their ground.

The Obscurus screeched and tore erratically through the air around them in a strange, frenetic way Percival hadn’t seen it move before; it looked like someone was trying and failing to steer it as it moved at a breakneck pace. It twisted itself into tighter and tighter turns, headed on an inward spiral.

Suddenly, Percival realised what it was on a collision course with; so had the others.

“Get down!” screamed Queenie, and most of the smarter journalists dove or ran for cover.

“ _Protego Maxima_!” shouted Tina, raising her wand. Above them, a shimmering barrier formed in the air just as the Obscurus crashed into the Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer with a howl, sending it toppling to the floor.

The next few seconds were chaos. The giant, clock-like mechanism hit the marble floor with the force of a mortar, exploding in a volley of glass and rubble that showered the entire lobby. A sizeable area of the lobby had been protected by Tina’s swift response, but an equally significant portion had not. When the dust began to clear, Percival saw bodies crumpled on the floor amidst fallen cameras, and could not tell if they were dead or simply stunned or wounded. In the middle of it, the Obscurus was coiled around the carcass of the Threat Level Measurer, vibrating angrily.

Ignoring everything, he ran to it. To him.

Within the curling smoke a pair of white eyes gleamed out at him and, as he got closer, Credence’s face appeared, struggling through the mire. Percival didn’t try to speak or call out—he couldn’t. Not feeling it cut him, he climbed the pile of broken glass and metal toward the Obscurus, then held his arms out and simply hoped.

Seconds later, the smoke shrank away and Credence toppled into his embrace, knocking him onto the floor. He didn’t care; he hugged him so tight it must have hurt, because Credence groaned and wriggled slightly in his arms.

Somewhere, somehow, a journalist took their picture.

It took him a moment to register the flash. Another to register what it meant. Another again to realise that this was bad— _very_ bad. Even so, he held on tight to Credence, who sat up with a shudder in his arms, looked down at him; then gasped and transformed again, one moment a man, the next a thrashing black mass lashing against his arms.

Percival’s head snapped back as one of the Obscurus’ smoky tendrils slashed across his face, leaving a bloody cut—still, he refused to let go. Only seconds later, Credence had transformed back again, wide eyes trying and failing to focus on him, flickering back-and-forth between deep brown and brilliant white.

“S-sorry, I—c-c-can’t—”

His mouth distorted as he had seen it do before. Percival closed his eyes and pulled him tight against him, one hand resolutely bracing the back of his head, as if to hold him together. If he did one thing properly in his life, it would be doing right by this boy, even if he’d already failed him far too many times.

Footsteps came pounding toward him and moments later he heard Tina’s voice—a distant, worried buzz—as she helped them both up. Credence made an awful choking sound as they lifted him up; Percival leaned in, lay his forehead to his and placed his hands either side of his neck.

“Come on, kid. You have to stay with me.”

A cold hand covered one of his, trembling.

“I’ve still got you. Please, doll…”

“P—P-Per—” Credence’s voice stuttered like a broken record and died out with a rattle. His hand fell away from where it held Percival’s and he crumpled in his arms, still breathing shallowly but unmoving.

Percival looked up at the room around them, though he didn’t loosen his grip even an inch. Tina was leaning over them, wand drawn, and Queenie was only a few feet behind, her wide blue eyes—and, he imagined, her even wider mind—taking in the aftermath. The rest of the room was beginning to echo with quiet groans and sobs, and with hurrying footsteps as the uninjured parties began to rush to the aid of those who had been hurt.

Deciding something, he looked at Tina. “What were you saying before?”

She stared back at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you knew—that he told you—how to get it out,” Percival looked down at Credence helplessly where he had fallen limp in his arms. “We have to do it now.”

“Right here?” Tina didn’t look unwilling, just uncertain.

Percival turned his head. The activity in the room around them was starting to pick up; in what seemed like no time at all, first responders had begun to spill through the front door and from the fireplaces and Portkey drops around the perimeter of the lobby. Maybe someone who had come through from Moll Dyer or one of the other healing wards could help them; then again, more likely, all four of them would be seen as instigators.

Besides, he had no idea how the Obscurus would respond once they removed it. If it could still be dangerous without its host…

“No. It’s too exposed. We need to get him somewhere isolated.”

“You need,” came a low, warning voice, “to stand down, before you cause harm to anyone else.”

Seraphina appeared behind them, flanked by two Aurors—the Roche twins, Laurel and Anthony, both with faces like thunder. She herself looked full of righteous fury, tall and imposing, a goddess-like figure standing out vibrant against the rubble. To Percival—perhaps only to Percival—she also looked frayed at the edges, a warrior thrown fresh from one battle into another.

He kept one arm around Credence, but lifted his other hand in surrender. Tina and Queenie lowered their wands in deference, though neither backed away.

With a motion of Seraphina’s hand, the Roche twins split from her side and went to stand by each of the Goldstein sisters. Their wands were drawn, but not pointed at the women, though Percival had no doubt that was not a continued guarantee. Seraphina stood over Percival and Credence herself, and Percival could see her looking down at the unconscious man in his arms with wonderment amidst what must have been terrible shock.

“Graves,” she said, softly, sadly. “Why are you doing this?”

He looked up at her, beseeching her with his eyes. “Seraphina… please, trust me.”

Many eyes were watching the President intently as she stood beneath a giant banner of her own visage, looming over the man who had been her second in all things; but she seemed oblivious to them. Raising her wand, she swirled it in an elegant arc, her other hand moving gracefully as if conducting. In the center of the room, the Magical Exposure Threat Level Measurer shivered where it had struck the marble floor, and the shards of glass and metal that had snapped and bent off it were sucked back toward it as it began to crunch and warp back into its original shape. As Seraphina raised it with her wand, the rest of their surroundings also began to repair themselves. Furniture that had been reduced to kindling snapped upright again, splinters fusing. Chunks of marble clicked tidily back into their places and melted together as if they had never been broken.

When the MACUSA lobby once again resembled its original state, save for the clusters of people gathering around the hurt and injured (and not dead, Percival hoped—but he could not be sure), she raised her wand to her own throat.

“ _Sonorus_ ,” she said, and her voice became powerful enough to fill the entire lobby, cutting across the low murmur of frightened civilians and staff. “I speak on behalf of the Magical Congress of the United States of America. Please remain calm. To those who have been injured—the staff of Moll Dyer are here to help you. All MACUSA personnel; please return to your duties if possible, and await further instruction. Those who feel unable are excused.”

She cast a critical eye down at Percival.

“Everything is under control. We have detained those responsible, and will provide every possible assistance to those who have been harmed. For the time being, I must ask all civilians to leave the premises immediately. If necessary, MACUSA staff will escort you safely to your homes.

“We thank you for your cooperation. _Quietus._ ” As her voice returned to its normal volume, she turned to the Roche twins and said, “Escort these two ladies to Ms. Goldstein’s office.”

Then she bent down, laid one hand on Percival’s shoulder and the other on Credence, and Disapparated from the lobby—a privilege afforded to her.

Without thinking, Percival had squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was sitting on the large, circular rug in Seraphina’s office, with Credence still draped limply across his lap. The President was bent over them, her expression unreadable even to him as she rose to her full height again.

“I can explain,” said Percival, his voice feeling frail.

“I certainly hope so.” Seraphina turned her back on them, and took off her ornamental turban. Beneath it, her white hair was still gracefully wound around her head; but even Percival rarely saw her without it. How tired must she be?

“Of course,” he said, even though he had no idea where to begin.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Well, then?”

In his arms, Credence shifted—then fell through his embrace, rolling onto the rug in front of him. Percival reached for him, hands swiping uselessly through Credence’s torso. For whatever reason, he didn’t seem to be passing through the floor; and a few moments later, he looked solid again, although a slow trickle of blood was coming out of his nose.

A huge lump had formed in Percival’s throat. He couldn’t answer her, couldn’t speak at all; it was everything he could do to hold back his tears of frustration. After everything, if something were to happen to Credence—right here, right in front of him, while he was wandless and powerless—then he’d…

“Seraphina…” His voice began to crack. How many times had she made herself available to him when he’d been too proud to accept her assistance? Had he wasted all of that, only to need her in his corner now more than ever? “Please… help me.”

“Percival.” Seraphina’s voice again. Softer. When he looked up she had turned to face him. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” he suddenly sobbed, hands bunching in the front of Credence’s shirt. “But he’ll die if I don’t. I came here thinking I could solve all of this with words but—there aren’t any, Seraphina. There just _aren’t_. There’s nothing I can do at all, and if I _lose him_ —”

“Hush, now.” Kneeling on the floor with him, Seraphina leant over Credence’s fallen form and wrapped her arms around Percival’s shoulders, her gentle, unyielding voice in his ear. “Pull yourself together, Percival Graves. There are very few things _I_ cannot do.”

He looked at her, and she looked at him; they were both stretched so terribly far, but together perhaps they could be just strong enough to do what needed to be done.


	14. I Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me. If you've got any questions for me while we head into the final stretch, my tumblr's [here](http://sortita.tumblr.com/). c:

_Love,_  
_The hour of parting is near…_  
_And in my heart, I can hear_  
_The song we heard when I met you._

(Bert Lown, 1930)

 

Seraphina went to her desk and wrote something on a piece of paper. Then she flicked her wand and it folded itself into a dainty, bird-like creature and soared off, wriggling into the communication pipe by the door and whizzing out of sight. “I’ve sent for Ms. Goldstein. Is there anything we can do in the meantime to prevent any further outbursts?”

In Percival’s arms, Credence’s form began to shudder as if he might vanish again. He held him tighter. “I don’t know. They only seem to happen when he feels threatened, but… he seems calm now. I don’t think _we’re_ in danger—I’m more concerned that he hasn’t woken up.”

Thoughtfully, Seraphina went to one of the towering bookcases that lined part of the wall of her office. Percival doubted there would be anything there that would give them any insight; most of the books kept on display there detailed magical history and law, not obscure magical ailments. Withdrawing a book from one of the high shelves with her wand, she showed him the cover: _The Original 12: A History of the Aurors Who Shaped MACUSA._ What help would a history lesson be now? Instead, she withdrew a slip of paper that had been hidden under the cover.

“I read the diaries as soon as Tina gave them to me,” she explained. “But I left them on my desk and they went missing after Grindelwald escaped. I assume Fontaine is responsible.”

She held up the piece of paper—it was the letter that Queenie had forged for them.

“I thought this might happen, so I hid this as collateral. I see he’s made his move on me, too; unfortunately, with the state of things, this is rather inauspicious timing.”

Percival shifted uncomfortably. “I heard some of the broadcast. I’m sorry that our relationship was a liability.”

“I’ve never seen it that way,” she said simply. Then: “I’m appalled that he would undermine my office at a time when the wizarding community desperately needs stability. Grindelwald is our number one priority for now, but once this blows over he needs to be made an example of. I wasn’t aware of the scandal with Ms. Blanche… but if it’s true, then it’s just the cherry on the cake.”

“I know there isn’t much proof, but…”

“We’re veering off the point.” She set the forged note down on her desk and looked them over. “You seem very invested in this young man.”

With Seraphina at his side and Credence in his arms, it would have been easy to lose himself and forget entirely about the state of the rest of the world—but he hadn’t. “Madam President, I know this is far more trouble than anyone has time for right now—”

“Forget it, Graves; it was an observation, not an accusation,” she said, shaking her head. In spite of her fatigue she sounded almost amused. “I was wondering when this might happen.”

“Pardon?”

“When you would let someone other than me into your life again.” She cast her eyes down at Credence; surprised, but not disappointed. “This is an… interesting choice.”

He flushed, but didn’t say anything. Just then there was a commotion at the door as it flew open and Tina came rushing in, wand at the ready.

“Madam President, I can explain—but first—”

Seraphina put her finger to her lips in a hushing gesture as she moved around her desk to stand alongside Credence and Percival. “No need, Ms. Goldstein—I know everything that I need to about _that_. Now, how will this work?”

“I’m ready now, Madam President; I don’t need anything but my wand.” Tina dug in her pocket for something and retrieved a letter. Even as she looked at it, however, her face began to fall and she swallowed thickly. “It’s only that… if we try this, it might not work. Newt said that he’s never known of an Obscurial who survived having the parasite removed. So—so there’s a good chance even trying to remove it might kill him.”

Percival’s eyes widened. “It’s not an option, then.”

 “You said this was our _only_ option!” Tina protested. “I told you there was a risk, but he’s getting worse. You know he’ll die if we don’t get it out of him—you told me yourself we had to do it right now.”

“What is the alternative? Waiting for it to kill him naturally?” asked Seraphina. She was speaking with a pragmatism Percival knew was necessary, but it didn’t make it any less painful to hear. “In this state, he’s a danger to himself and others. We all know this.”

“Of course we know,” Percival said sharply, remembering an ache in his shoulder and leg. He hadn’t told anyone where those injuries had come from, but he was sure Queenie, at least, had some idea. “But that’s not an acceptable risk to… to me.”

Reason told him that they were both right, but as he looked down at Credence he couldn’t bring himself to do anything that might hurt him. Even if the alternative was terrible… then again, were any of their alternatives _not_ terrible?

Seraphina stepped forward.

“First, let’s ensure that we understand precisely what it is we’re dealing with. Having studied this condition, I’ve formed some theories about its nature—though we must concede that this is a largely unstudied phenomenon, and I may be wrong.” She looked between him and Tina as if to ensure that they understood. Then, she began: “I propose that he’s too full of raw magic.”

Tina frowned. “Raw magic?”

“Children can’t control the flow of their magic at first; but most don’t have enough raw power for it to be significant. As they get older, their power increases, and we start to see cases like the Dormer file—” Percival cringed. Of all the times to bring it up… but Seraphina carried on. “—where that power overflows, and children express their magic involuntarily.

“Starting at around eleven, we are issued our wands, which help us channel our natural gifts. Now, suppose we call this new means of expressing our magic our ‘functional ability’. Wands teach us to focus our raw ability through skill; we aren’t using _all_ of the power we have, only what we need. This means that a few years later, during puberty, when our raw ability begins to spike—” She made a ‘spiking’ gesture with one hand. “—we aren’t at risk of our magic overflowing any more, because our functional skill has increased enough to keep it in check. Over time, most wizards never need to use the full extent of their raw ability.”

“Right,” said Tina. “But—excuse me, Madam President—a lot of this is just common knowledge. How can this help Credence?”

“Imagine,” she said, gesturing to Credence, “that you _never_ gain functional use of your magic, and you _only_ have the increasing raw ability. My theory is this: the Obscurus develops partly in response to that growing excess of raw magic. Its original function is to suppress the outbursts or overflows that are putting its user in danger; in other words—as a protector, not a parasite.”

That was a little much for Percival to stomach, and he supposed it showed on his face, because Seraphina gave him a look that clearly said ‘wait’ before she continued.

“But we know that it becomes more dangerous as time goes on, so we can surmise that eventually, it is consuming the raw magic at a faster rate than the host can produce it. Once they are too depleted, it starts to consume the host themselves.”

Unable to contain his worry, Percival bowed his head and looked down at Credence. His eyes were darting back and forth under the lids, as if he were dreaming, but otherwise his face was very still. Percival reached out and cupped his cheek tenderly with the palm of his hand.

“Unless… the host is so powerful that they produce enough raw magic to sustain the Obscurus apparently indefinitely.” He hadn’t been expecting her to keep going, this time. Seraphina knelt beside him again, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Or unless something happens that makes the host uninhabitable and forces the Obscurus out. History suggests that this condition is only created under extreme emotional circumstances. Suppose that this condition is caused by powerful feelings of rejection, fear, self-loathing … what kind of magic do you think could undo something like that?”

A word came to mind; or rather, it swelled inside him in spite of how afraid he was, soaring above a dark cloud of fear and pain. As he held Credence closer again, he told himself that he wouldn’t say it out loud just yet—but something also told him that the moment Credence opened his eyes he would make a liar out of him on that count.

“Perhaps trust. Perhaps acceptance.” Seraphina straightened up again. “Or perhaps none of these things. There is deep magic in the world, tied to emotion, that we simply don’t understand. An Obscurial is just one example.”

“Madam President…” He wet his lips with his tongue. “How did you learn so much about this so quickly?”

“You think I learned all this just now, from that No-Maj’s despicable experiments? No. It did clarify some things, but I’ve been reading about them ever since we confirmed there was one in New York. Even after we thought we had destroyed it.” She paused. “Him.”

He looked at her and it was all so clear; understanding any potential threat to the wizarding world of America was her duty, and her great burden. She wouldn’t be caught in this position again.

“So,” he said, “what are you suggesting that we do?”

“I’m suggesting that we have several options. First: we attempt to remove the Obscurus, knowing the host may very well be killed in the process. If he survives, he’ll have all the assistance he needs to be rehabilitated into our society.”

This, Percival couldn’t help but warm to hear. It would be a risk for Seraphina; so it was a promise she was making not as the President, but as his friend.

“Second: We leave him as is, and try to mitigate any further damage to him or anyone else. We know the Obscurus feeds off magic. So, we increase the relevant security and return Mr. Barebone to Magical Quarantine. There, his condition can be studied and hopefully treated in isolation and relative safety. Assuming this method buys him some time, we can use our resources to find experts, like Mr. Scamander, to assist us in removing the Obscurus more safely.”

“We already established both of those,” said Percival. “You said ‘several’.”

“There is a third option,” she said, “but you won’t like it.”

“I don’t like _any_ of this.”

“Very well.” She sighed heavily. “Third: we kill him, humanely, before this escalates.”

Both he and Tina flinched, but neither of them were surprised at it being on the table, and in some ways, it was a relief for Seraphina to have voiced it rather than either of them. Technically, it _was_ an option, but one Percival couldn’t bring himself to even consider. He looked at Tina. She was biting her lip thoughtfully; he gave her a questioning look, but then realised she was staring at the unconscious man in his arms. At that, Percival had an uncomfortable realisation. They could debate what the “right” thing to do was as much as they wanted, but the person whose input they needed most was Credence’s.

Just as he thought this, Credence began to stir languidly—but as Percival braced, squeezing him tighter in case he came apart in his arms, he saw that this time he was simply waking up. Some stupid, excited impulse had him lifting Credence awkwardly into a sitting position. Relieved, in spite of all the awful decisions they would still have to make, Percival hugged him tightly before he helped brace him upright again, supporting him with both hands on his shoulders and suppressing the urge to kiss his face. Hovering over them, Seraphina watched guardedly, Tina anxiously.

“Credence! Oh, thank Merlin—listen, I need you to help us. We’re trying to help you, but we need you to help us figure out what to do.” There was no response. Tentatively, Percival shook him. “Can you hear me, Credence? It’s me. It’s Percival.”

Credence’s eyelids fluttered open, brilliant white. He inhaled sharply, then sank forward against Percival for support. There was something very unusual about his energy from the moment he woke up; it had changed subtly, but Percival couldn’t figure out how.

“I remember,” he croaked. “I remember…”

“What?” Percival pulled back to look at his face better. “What do you remember?”

His eyes were still glowing luminous white, but Percival could still feel them locking onto his face. His voice distorted disconcertingly.

“ _Everything_.”

**NEW SALEM PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETY  
1908**

A little boy curled up in the corner of a dark attic on a stormy night, with fresh marks on his skin; red, stinging welts on his back, under his clothes. He had broken a bowl, then fixed it again with nothing but his apologetic touch.

Some naïve part of him had thought that his Ma would be happy that he’d made amends for his clumsiness, but instead she’d struck the repaired bowl out of his hand and made him kneel while she beat him with an old belt.

_Are you sad?_

It felt like a soft voice in the back of his mind, quiet, gentle, a timid purr under the thunder and lightning he could hear roaring and crashing outside. Credence Barebone shook his head. He was sore, but he didn’t feel any sadder than he normally did.

_Are you scared?_

That sent a little prickle up the back of his neck.

_No, no… don’t be. Don’t be scared. Not of me._

Nobody had opened the hatch that led down to the rest of the church, but suddenly Credence felt as if someone were sitting beside him in the dark, waiting out the storm with him.

_I’ll be with you._

_Now._

_Always._

_Every step of the way._

_I’ll protect you: from her, from you, from everything._

_I will never leave you._

_I promise._

_I’m not_

_going_

_anywhere._

**THE PRESIDENTIAL OFFICE, MACUSA HEADQUARTERS  
1926**

“What’s happening to him?!”

“I don’t know—Credence, talk to us, talk to me—”

Percival felt Credence’s back arch as he convulsed in his arms with a pained cry, hands going to clutch at his head as if to contain a growing flow of smoke, spilling from his mouth, his nose, from every tiny crack in his skin. Seraphina immediately drew her wand—Percival moved to shield Credence with his body.

“No! Stop it! Let him calm down. I’ve got him, everything’s fine—”

Her eyes were trained on the cut on his face where the Obscurus had slashed him. He shook his head, put out his hand in a ‘wait’ gesture and turned back to Credence, who had fallen out of his embrace and onto the rug. He was still clutching his head as if to keep it from splitting open; Tina was kneeling beside him, trying to hush him.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you,” she was saying, “everything’s going to be okay—”

His voice was almost incoherent, layered over with a strange sound resembling the Obscurus’ roars. What few words Percival could make out were less than encouraging. “Dying—hurting— _breaking_ —”

“I’m right here,” said Percival, joining her. He knelt over Credence, whose hands inched away from his face slightly. Percival could see his white eyes glowing through the gaps in his fingers. “I’m not going _anywhere_.”

Suddenly, a more coherent strain of speech emerged from the rest as Credence looked directly at him.

“You _liar_!”

Sensing danger, Tina intervened. “Mr. Graves, maybe you should—”

But Percival suddenly saw red and responded without thinking.

“I am _not_ a liar!” he snapped. “Would I be here at all if I didn’t care for you? I _never_ lied to you—I might not have always been able to keep my word, but I never promised you anything I didn’t intend!”

Seraphina tried to seize him by the back of the collar. “What’s the matter with you, Graves?! You said you were _de_ - _escalating_ —”

“ _I_ _love you_! Percival shouted at him—and both women went quiet and stared at him.

It took a moment for them to realise that Credence was quiet, too, and that the smoke had stopped pouring off him.

It took Percival even longer to realise what he’d just said in front of everyone. Once he did, he sank back onto the floor, clearing his throat uncomfortably. If it had to be anyone, at least it was in front of two people who had already seen him at some of his lowest points, but still…

There was a gasp from Tina as Credence sat up, pushing himself off the floor with one hand, the other still held to his head. He looked as if he felt like he had been hit by a train, but he was looking at Percival with his own eyes again; deep and dark, not unnatural white.

“I… remember,” he repeated, breathless. “I remember…”

Percival, feeling like an idiot, offered his arm to help him sit up, which he took numbly.

“When it… took over, I could never… remember what happened afterwards.”

Sitting down beside him, Tina patted over his shoulders as if to make sure he was still all there. “What can you remember now, Credence?”

Turning his face away from her, Credence winced. “Just… a lot of things breaking. I—I remember killing that Senator. Killing my…”

Credence looked like he was going to be sick; then he dissolved into tears again.

“I know,” said Tina, hugging him protectively. “It’s all right.”

Briefly, Percival looked over his shoulder at Seraphina, who did not look as if she had expected her morning to go quite like this. Her wand was still drawn, though she was gradually lowering it. As he met her eyes, she raised an eyebrow slightly, but remained quietly calm.

Once Credence had stopped crying, he reached out for Percival’s hand. Stunned, Percival gave it to him.

“You said something,” he said, “before.”

“Oh.” Percival rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… yes. I… ”

“Not that.” Credence shook his head. Percival couldn’t help feeling a bit relieved—and actually, Seraphina and Tina looked as if they felt the same. “You said you needed my help. To save me.”

“That’s right,” said Seraphina, stepping forward.

Credence looked up at her with a dawning realisation. “You tried to kill me, in the subway. How can I trust you?”

“To say the least, Mr. Barebone, it’s been a highly unusual day,” said Seraphina. “Now, your choices are by no means excellent, but they are yours. I will respect your decision, no matter what it is.”

“Um…” Credence lowered his gaze. “D-don’t call me that, please.”

Seraphina blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was never really a Barebone,” he said, softly but without backing down. “I’d… prefer it if you didn’t say that.”

The look Seraphina gave Percival out of the corner of her eye was faintly approving. “Excuse me, then. Your mother’s name was ‘Blanche’?”

“I’m not really that, either,” Credence murmured. Percival started to realise he was looking at him thoughtfully—it seemed as if something else were on the tip of his tongue, but instead he said: “Just ‘Credence’ is fine.”

“Fine,” said Seraphina. “Credence, I’d like you to tell us how we can best help you.”

Credence thought about it, and it seemed to be a great effort; finally, he looked back at Percival.

“I… I just want to go home,” he said, weakly. “I just want everything to go back to normal.”

“I want that, too,” said Percival. Granted, ‘normal’ was a pretty strong word for it; but with all his heart, he wanted the same. “But you know it’s not that simple. You remember what just happened, don’t you?”

“Yes; the big clock,” said Credence, without hesitation. Then his eyes darted away uncomfortably. “Did I—I didn’t…?”

Percival and Seraphina looked at each other uncertainly, but Tina interjected for them.

“Nobody died,” she said. “A report came through from Moll Dyer’s just before you called me. There were some serious injuries, b-but hopefully nothing the healers can’t fix.”

“Even so, this doesn’t minimise the severity of the situation,” said Seraphina, looking down at Credence. “To put it in terms that might make more sense to you, what you did was akin to setting off a bomb in the White House. Even if it was unintentional, the damage could have been catastrophic.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

“This is a little beyond apologies. If I could grant clemency, perhaps I would; but at a time like this, preserving order is of utmost importance.” Seraphina turned her gaze to Percival and Tina, now. “Both of you understand this, and yet you have risked your professions, your lives and the safety of the wizarding community for this man.”

“I wasn’t employed,” Percival pointed out. Seraphina looked at him. “I take it that broom has long since flown, too. My behaviour shouldn’t reflect on MACUSA—on you.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “it already has. And all of this is beside the point; we are no closer to figuring out how to help your friend, and this has already taken up much of my limited time.”

They all looked away from her guiltily.

“Just—just a little longer, Madam President,” said Tina. “I can take him and Graves back to detention for now.”

“I’m sorry, but no; we can afford no more distractions while we recommence the hunt for Grindelwald,” she said. With that, she turned to Credence again. “I ask again: how can we best help you?”

This time, as Credence considered, Percival suddenly saw his wide, nervous eyes focus and then dart side-to-side as though he were recalling something. He looked uncertain—but at last, he looked up at her with a determined stare unlike any Percival had ever seen him wear.

“You can’t,” he said, slowly rising to his feet, “but _I_ can help _you_. I know where he is.”

The whole room stood still. Percival and Tina got up off the floor, too, and Percival put his hand on Credence’s back to steady him, only to realise he didn’t need it.

“Is this true?” asked Seraphina, staring into Credence’s eyes. He stared right back. Percival could practically feel the sparks coming off the two of them.

“I remember everything that happened when the Obscurus took over,” said Credence, and his timid voice seemed to have deepened. “And I remember what happened when He escaped. I remember how.”

“How?” Percival’s fingers tightened on his shoulder encouragingly. “What happened, Credence?”

Credence looked over at him, as if that were all he needed to carry on.

“There was another man, who let him out on purpose. The guards let him past and he came down to my door, like he was going to walk in—only he never tried to open it. He looked in at me, then turned around and… he was holding the diaries in his hand.” Everyone was watching him in awe. “He doubled back—I couldn’t see him through the window any more, but I heard the door open. That’s when the fight happened.”

“But the only one who went down there was…” Tina was open-mouthed; they all were. “ _Oh_.”

“Now, but earlier you said…” Percival almost hesitated to repeat it, but Seraphina was giving him a stern look. “You said you thought you saw me outside your cell.”

Swallowing, Credence continued. “Yes… but that was just after. It—it was all really fast, I think… I think that was just the clearest picture because even though I was upset, I…”

He looked over at him, tenderly covering the hand on his shoulder with his own.

“…I wanted to see you.”

Percival flushed again and Tina turned her head politely. Seraphina, however, was not deterred by this blatant display of affection.

“Aside from being an exceptional story, requiring a lot to be taken on faith,” she said, “that is a _very_ bold accusation, Credence.”

“Why?” asked Credence, equally undeterred. “Is that man important?”

With a shock, Percival realised that he simply didn’t know. Of course he wouldn’t! Fontaine’s face might have been a familiar sight to anyone who had lived in the wizarding world, particularly if they were involved in politics, but to Credence he must not have looked any different to any other aging man.

“Credence,” he said, nudging him. “That’s Fontaine; the one I told you about. That’s the man who…”

He let it hang. Credence didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened hard in response. Finally, he nodded and bowed his head, going dangerously quiet.

“Wait,” said Tina, “Madam President—Graves doesn’t know.”

He tore his eyes off Credence and looked at her. “What don’t I know?”

A look of horror had started to dawn on Seraphina’s face. “Curses—I should have seen this coming. Percival, we talked to Fontaine _weeks_ ago.”

“Before I got out of hospital? Why?”

“Because,” said Tina, “he was corresponding with you—with _Grindelwald_ —while you were being impersonated. He visited you in your office, and then a few days later came out with this big statement about you; saying you were great, that he’d known you through your whole career—”

Percival gritted his teeth.

“—that the Wizarding World was in great hands, that we should all trust you…” She looked to be at a loss. “We really… when we brought him in to talk about it, we really thought it was nothing to be concerned about. He was a family friend, so it made sense for him to keep up with your work—even to support you, with a crisis going on—but since we knew that you didn’t see him much outside of it, we couldn’t expect him to know… he didn’t seem to know anything that wasn’t in the public record, and we couldn’t connect him with you besides that one meeting.”

“Nobody thought that was strange, then?” Percival growled. “That one minute he couldn’t get enough of me, and the next he’s slamming me and the President all over the press?”

“It’s Fontaine,” Seraphina said. “You’re talking about the man who founded the initiative to appropriate useful No-Maj technology into wizarding communities; he started the program that gives grants to Auror candidates from low-income families—”

“—and it’s a very _nice_ program,” said Percival, angrily, “slightly overshadowed by the fact that, apparently, he’s a filthy traitor who supports Grindelwald and assaults his—”

“ _None of which can be proven_.” Seraphina was practically quivering with anger. “His reputation is too strong to fall apart from witness testimony, let alone from you and Credence. Even the journals weren’t a certainty, but now he has those, too. If we find more evidence while investigating Grindelwald, then perhaps—but right now, I’m sorry, I can’t send Aurors after him purely on conviction and your word.”

Percival set his jaw in frustration. What could they do, then? It all seemed so terribly hopeless; when, suddenly, Credence broke his deliberate silence.

“You’re not an Auror.” He was looking at Percival intently. “Neither am I.”

Everyone stared at him.

As if seeing him for the first time, Percival looked back into his eyes; fiery, vengeful, intense. The purpose he’d seen sparks of back at his house were now an inferno that—in spite of what his reason told him—Percival felt inexorably drawn to bask in. He reached out, took Credence’s hand and held it tight.

“No!” cried Tina, frantically. “You can’t be serious. It’s too dangerous, Credence—and you’re not well enough!”

“Tina,” Credence looked at her, and now Percival could see a hint of his fragility peering through again, “I might not ever be well enough.”

“Mr. Graves,” said Tina, turning her attention to him. “You’re not ready, either. You don’t even have a wand.”

This was the first piece of common sense to have Percival seriously reconsider his choices, but then Seraphina stepped away from them, went to her desk, and opened the top drawer. She withdrew something, which was obscured by her billowing sleeves until she returned to them and handed it to Percival, who stared at it in surprise.

“Actually,” she said, “you do now.”

In his hand was Marisol’s Quintana wand, still warm to the touch.

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “It would be—disrespectful.”

“To use her wand in the event that you have to duel the man who killed her?”

Nodding solemnly, he closed his fingers around the hilt. “When you put it like that…”

Tina shook her head. “Madam President, you can’t really be considering this? If Fontaine _is_ with Grindelwald, they could both be killed!”

“Yes,” Seraphina replied, softly, “they could. But I remind you that they did volunteer; which is why I need you to return to the investigation team and be ready to provide backup.”

“ _Backup_?”

“I’ll give Graves the means to communicate with you in an emergency. If all goes well, we could be bringing Grindelwald back in tonight,” Seraphina said. “But if Credence is mistaken, then sending the Aurors after Fontaine on an unsubstantiated hunch will be seen as an insult at best, a confession of guilt at worst. We can’t risk it.”

“The President is right,” Percival added. “Right now, Credence and I might be technically considered criminals; but in the eyes of the international community, we’re nothing compared to Grindelwald. If we’re right, nobody will care where the information came from.”

“But if you’re wrong,” said Tina, “you could die.”

Percival didn’t say the first thing that came to mind—the thought that had been seeping slowly through him like ice-cold water since the moment he opened his eyes in Moll Dyer’s: _I’m already dead._ That thought was followed by another, even more powerful thought as he looked over at Credence again. No matter how he might have felt about himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of him coming to harm—but it seemed as if there were no way to avoid that, at this point. The least they could do was let it be on his terms.

Speaking of which, Credence had been even quieter than usual since his last remark to Tina, but Percival could tell that he was thinking, focussing intently. What was going through his mind right now, he wondered?

In the pause that followed, Seraphina stepped around the desk. She looked at Percival as she had more than once before; with the awareness that this could be the last time they spoke.

“I question this myself,” she confessed. “But we may soon have much larger problems. If this is the only way we can follow this lead, then go now—”

She turned away again, with finality.

“—before I change my mind.”

 

 


	15. Thicker Than Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go, then we're all finished!
> 
> This has been such a special story for me to write; it's been a real challenge, but I'm really glad I tackled it. I'll come right out and say it: I'm bad at participating in fandoms. I love to create, but I'm shy, and it can be hard to share the things I make with people, especially when they're close to home. This story covers a lot of themes that are very personal to me, and sometimes it can be really difficult exposing those parts of myself, not knowing what the reception will be.  
> That's why I really couldn't have gotten this far without your support. There are a few of you now who have been commenting for a long time, and your feedback and encouragement mean so much to me.  
> I say it a lot, but thank you--for everything.
> 
> There are a lot of people I want to thank individually, but I'll save that for the ending. All I can say for now is: I apologise in advance.

_I could cry salty tears;_  
 _Where have I been all these years?_  
 _Little wow, tell me now:_  
 _How long has this been going on?_  
(Gershwin, 1928)

The Fontaines were New Yorkers through-and-through—they’d been based here since the 1600s, even before MACUSA headquarters had relocated in 1892, and when Manfred Fontaine was elected President just a few years after the big move, it all seemed rather fortuitous.

Percival had still been relatively young—finishing at Ilvermorny, and preparing for Auror training, as he recalled—but he remembered that election well. Now it left such a terrible taste in his mouth he felt quite nauseous, but at the time he’d been proud as anything that his family was so involved in the whole process, paving the electoral trail and celebrating the win afterwards with a tight group of elites. On top of everything else he’d learned, it all seemed so vapid in retrospect. Had he ever really been that self-important?

When it came to self-importance, however, the Fontaine estate was much larger and more ostentatious than Graves’ own, which had only been for the use of his immediate family. The actual Graves family estate was still back in upper-crust LA, where his mother had moved after his father passed to be closer to their extended family. Ironically, they were currently closer to Dahlia geographically than they were to him; in the past, he’d wondered if she still kept in touch with them, but he’d never quite dared to ask either party.

As he and Credence stepped through the wrought iron gates, they could see a sprawling, perfectly manicured lawn stretching wide between them and the house. On the lawn were several ornate statues—not modern, like the Graves estate, but detailed, classical sculptures of single figures in powerful, grand poses with the sun glinting off them brilliantly. Though they couldn’t see them in a great deal of detail from their current distance, Percival had been here enough times to know that there were twelve, each at least eight feet tall. Around the base of every statue was a large, rotating band, depicting the names: Fischer, Jauncey, Lopez, MacDuff, O’Brien, Potter, Roche, Weiss, Wilkinson, Grimsditch, Graves and Fontaine. They were placed around the estate in a large circle, as if standing watch. Though he had never been here before uninvited, Percival had always strongly suspected they had been enchanted to do just that.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked Credence.

“I’m sure,” was the almost-whispered reply.

He still looked alive with vindictive purpose, and there did seem to have been a sort of change in him since he had woken up and regained his memories of his time as the Obscurus that Percival couldn’t quite explain. Still, it was difficult to forget that only a few hours earlier he had literally exploded in the MACUSA main lobby, and had struggled to regain his form—and then his consciousness—for some time afterwards. Perhaps Tina had been right; he wasn’t well enough for a confrontation like the one they had planned.

Then again, Percival wasn’t entirely sure he could actually _stop_ him if it came down to it. Credence hadn’t shown even a single sign of losing control of his Obscurus again since he’d regained himself back in Seraphina’s office, but if it came down to it… Percival touched the cut on his cheek, which he hadn’t had the presence of mind to heal yet. He could only be so lucky for so long.

Speaking of which, at some point they’d have to talk about what he’d said that had brought Credence back from the incoherent brink, but neither of them had been brave enough to say a word about it just yet. Percival had almost brought it up it on the way here, but then reconsidered; if this were a crime novel, then that was just the sort of conversation they might have directly before one of them was killed horribly.

“When we get there,” he said, eventually, “we can’t be sure what will happen. Grindelwald may not be here at all, but even so…”

Credence’s voice suddenly sounded slightly distant. “I know what will happen.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” said Credence, very quietly. “I’ll kill him.”

A montage of images flashed before Percival’s eyes; Credence’s wounded, terrified face every time he had transformed out of the Obscurus, realising that he had hurt someone, or could have.

“Credence,” he said, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. “You don’t want to kill anyone.”

Credence didn’t say anything.

“ _I_ don’t want you to kill anyone,” he reiterated. “Please, don’t do that to yourself.”

“I already did,” Credence said, choking on the words. “I killed Ma and Chastity.”

 _And the Senator,_ Percival thought—but knew better than to say it. “You didn’t mean to do that, though.”

“I did—I must have.” His shoulders tightened. “Or why else would it happen?”

“Credence…” Carefully, he put his arm around him. “Just because you think about doing something doesn’t mean you really _want_ it to happen—or that you’re a bad person, necessarily.”

Stifled, Credence moved slightly out from under his arm, which Percival withdrew immediately. “You wouldn’t know. You’re too… good.”

He said it so sincerely that Percival couldn’t help but blush; but he shook his head.

“I’m not _that_ good. I’ve wanted to hurt people before. For my job, yes—but also when I was angry. Everyone has thoughts like that.” He paused. Did they? “…I think. Besides, if you were really so bad as you think, you wouldn’t feel guilty about it. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Credence seemed to consider that, and moved closer to his side again. When he spoke again, it was very softly. “We have to do this, though. We have to… to end it.”

“No, we don’t,” said Percival. “It _is_ important—but if you can’t do it, if you’re not ready, then I’ll take you back to Jacob and Queenie right now.”

“What about you?”

“Well, I…” Percival felt his insides squirm as Credence’s gaze pierced him, and he found himself unable to answer with anything but the truth. “…I think I need to do this. For me.”

“Then… so do I,” said Credence, facing forward again. A few paces later he stopped short, looking at something up the path ahead. “Wait—look.”

In front of them, one of the twelve statues had stepped off its pedestal and now stood between them and the mansion, arms folded across its marble chest. Percival brushed ahead of Credence to hide him behind his back as the figure began to advance slowly, rumbling to a halt a few metres down the path.

The statue of Theodard Fontaine, the Fontaines’ famous ancestor, looked down its nose at him and spoke in a deep, gravelly voice: “Stop.”

“I have business here,” said Percival. “Let me pass.”

“You are not welcome, son of Graves,” said the statue, squaring itself. “Leave.”

It had at least been worth a try. Percival drew Marisol’s wand and turned slightly to make sure Credence was still hidden behind him as he prepared to defend them. Just as he did, he saw the tall shadow of another statue coming up the path behind them. Credence stumbled into his back as he tried to move away from it, as if he were trying to bury his face in Percival’s neck—Percival put his free arm out to keep him there, turning side-on so as not to expose his back to either approaching figure.

A few paces away, the second statue paused and peered deeply into his face, as if looking for something. Then it stopped on the path behind them and knelt deeply.

“Child of my child,” it intoned. “Blood of my blood.”

What had been a feeling of dread turned to a sudden, soaring hope as the statue straightened up again to reveal itself as the towering, marble likeness of Gondulphus Graves.

“What’s going on?” whispered Credence, as the statue of Gondulphus moved forward to stand at their side. “What’s it doing?”

“They must be enchanted to protect their descendants,” Percival said. “I’ve seen these statues before, but I never realised—”

_CRACK._

The statue of Theodard had charged, only for Gondulphus to block its path; the two collided with a resounding crash. As the impact shook the surrounding ground, Percival grabbed Credence by the arm to pull him out of the way just as the two statues squared up again.

The statue of Gondulphus turned his head to call out to them as he grappled with his adversary. “Run, son of Graves!”

Around them, the sound of stony footsteps began to echo through the air. Percival turned his head to see that the other statues were also climbing down from their pedestals and proceeding toward them across the lawn; slowly, at first, but already he could see some of the more distant statues breaking into a run.

There was a nasty crunching noise and another tremor as Gondulphus Graves lost his balance and fell to the ground—and then another as he kicked Theodard’s feet from under him, sending him toppling as well.

“ _Go_!” Percival yelled over the clatter of stone. He steered Credence around and pushed him in the direction of the front door.

Credence didn’t need to be told twice—and he was surprisingly fast, making it to the main entryway an easy few seconds before him. As Percival joined him, he grappled with the handle and found the door obviously locked. He pointed Marisol’s wand at it.

“ _Alohomora_.” Nothing—of course. Far too basic for such an estate; his own door wouldn’t have opened for that. He tried another spell, and another—at his side, Credence was watching anxiously over their shoulders. Many of the statues had been distracted enough by the fight between Fontaine and Graves to join it rather than pursuing them; but most had taken the side of Fontaine, and Percival’s ancestor, Gondulphus, was now missing at least one limb and a large chunk of his face.

“Try something else!” Credence called out. Percival took a few steps back.

“ _Reducto_!” he shouted—but the door absorbed that too, wearing a black scorch mark for all of a moment before it melted into the paint. He, too, was increasingly distracted by the statues, who was losing interest in the waning Gondulphus.

“Something else,” Credence was looking around frantically. “There—there must be another door. Or a window—we could break a window—”

Suddenly, there was a roar of triumph from behind them. The two of them turned their heads to see one of the other statues pummel into Gondulphus so hard that he cracked all the way down the centre. He lay, twitching uselessly, on the path for a moment before falling still. Some of the other statues had met a similar fate—Weiss and O’Brien appeared to have been dispatched, along with another that was now unrecognisable without its head—but the rest had turned in unison to face the entryway, fanning out into a semi-circle to close off their escape routes.

“I’m not dying like this,” muttered Percival, and fired a curse at the closest statue. Behind him, Credence stayed ably out of the way.

A strange feeling came over him as he wielded Marisol’s wand against the statues—a feeling he’d felt once before as he’d healed his wounds in the wand drop office at Quarantine. It was as if his old subordinate was there with him, lending her strength, and before he knew it he was casting wordlessly, effortlessly; sending statues flying into each other, tearing off their limbs and heads with explosive spells. He felt a fluidness, an ease, that he had not been able to feel at all since—since—

 _No_. No, not now.

_You won’t—you won’t—feel it—feel it feel it feel it—_

An image exploded into his mind, full force; a man at his door in the middle of the night. A feeling that something mustn’t be right—that he should call someone, do something—and then a foolish surge of pride.

He could handle it. He could handle anything.

_And if you do—if you do—_

A flash of white hair, a familiar face, one that Percival had seen on over a thousand ‘Wanted’ posters in the past few months alone. He remembered now—he had struck first. He didn’t talk, didn’t try to engage, didn’t care to—from the moment he’d seen him, nothing had mattered but taking him down.

_It won’t matter—matter—m-m-m-matter—_

He’d fought. Fiercer than he’d ever thought; fiercer than he’d ever thought he could or would ever need to. And yet no matter how powerful his spells were, they still weren’t powerful enough to pierce the protective barriers Grindelwald was throwing up as if it were nothing. Partway through, Percival had realised that his adversary wasn’t even _trying_ to win. Not yet. He was playing with him like a cat with the world’s most courageous—or most stupid—mouse.

When he’d struck back, it had been with finality.

_You won’t remember it. It. It. It—_

“ _Percival_!”

Credence caught him under his shoulders as he fell back against him. Percival opened his mouth to say something, but Credence had already put him down again, sitting him with his back against the door. He’d lifted his hand to try and call him back—the statues were almost upon them—and then Credence was standing between them, arms outstretched, defending him.

Before that moment, Percival had never thought anyone so selfless or reckless or brave, nor loved them more than words could ever possibly express. So, it was with shame that he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch.

It went completely silent.

After a moment he opened his eyes again to see what had happened. Credence still stood between him and the statues, but his arms were lowering in shock as the first statue—Theodard Fontaine—stepped slowly forward and sank onto one knee, seeing his face for the first time.

“Child of my child,” it boomed. “Blood of my blood.”

Behind them, the door swung open.

“Go,” the statue said, “son of Fontaine.”

Credence turned to face Percival with an anguished look on his face. Until now, Percival supposed, he must have known that Fontaine was _probably_ his father—but to have it confirmed in such a ceremonial way seemed traumatic in a way that Percival couldn’t possibly understand.

Picking himself up off the floor, he went to him, took his hand and led him inside, swinging the door shut on the statues. As they entered, his stomach clenched. He remembered this place; remembered coming here with his family as a child and later as an adult. He remembered his pride at being descended from a hero, surrounded by descendants of other heroes—how childish that all seemed now.

The entrance hall was dark except for the early afternoon sun shimmering dimly through the large windows towering over the top of a sweeping staircase. In the center of the room a glass case contained a mannequin wearing a somber set of grey robes; the original Auror uniform. (Gondulphus’ robes weren’t in any of the Graves estates—Percival’s grandfather had donated them to a museum in Salem years ago.) Their footsteps echoed slightly as they entered, seeming deafening in the otherwise completely silent house. Noting the lack of movement, Percival took a moment to check in with Credence.

“Are you all right?” he asked, though his own head was still splitting.

Even as he tried to swallow the pain, Credence saw through him in a second. “Are you? You almost collapsed again—what happened?”

“I just…” Percival supposed that the time for being proud around Credence, who by now had a lengthy track-record of bringing him to emotional extremes, was long since past. “Ever since I was rescued, I’ve been having these… flashbacks. I remember things that happened—things _he_ said… I know it’s childish, but they just… do _that_ to me. I’m… sorry.”

“Sorry?” Credence tilted his head quizzically. “You didn’t do anything wrong, or upset me… you don’t have to apologise.”

Percival smiled at him. “Right.”

“We’ll work on it,” said Credence, smiling back.

The lights suddenly flickered on, bathing them in light; when they looked away from each other, there was a man standing at the top of the stairs. He was not a particularly imposing looking man—in fact, he was quite advanced in years and was wearing an unthreatening yellow waistcoat over his crisp dress shirt. When he saw them, he smiled and opened his arms.

“Why, Percival Graves! It’s been such a long time. How have you been?”

Immediately, Percival had moved in front of Credence again with his wand drawn. “You know exactly how I’ve been, Fontaine.”

Manfred Fontaine moved slowly down the steps toward them—so slowly, in fact, that it was actually a little irritating.

“There’s no need to be impatient,” he said, “although, I suppose that patience never was your strong suit. Let me see—who have you got with you?”

Though Percival tried to keep in front of Credence, the young man stepped out from behind him to stare at Fontaine straight on. At that, the man on the stairs actually paused, with a dawning look of genuine shock. Then he smiled again languidly.

“Huh! You look just like someone I used to know—a relation, maybe? It’s such a small world. What’s your name, boy?”

“None of your business,” Credence said lowly, at which Percival felt a chill.

“Oh, dear,” Fontaine laughed. “This up-and-coming generation could really use a better education in manners—don’t you think so, Graves? He’s a very _interesting_ choice.”

A now-familiar spike of magic penetrated his mind like a thorn; he tried to use his Occlumency, but his defences shattered in seconds.

Seraphina’s voice. _Interesting choice._

The pages of Mary-Lou’s diary, flicking by one-by-one. Grimsditch, Fontaine, Carrie Blanche.

Credence’s smile as their faces parted in Jacob Kowalski’s spare room; Percival felt himself leaning in again to feel that smile against his just one more time, one more moment—

“Well,” said Fontaine, who was now at the bottom of the stairs, “he’s no Dahlia.”

Percival gripped his wand tighter, but his vision was starting to swim. What was happening to him?

“But it was nice of you to finally introduce us properly. I didn’t _want_ to leave you behind in Quarantine, dear boy, but all things considered, it just wasn’t the time.” He had moved a little closer to Credence, whose thunderous expression looked as if it could crack steel—and yet, the Obscurus hadn’t reacted at all. What was going on? “I’m very, very glad you both came.”

“Madam Picquery knows what you’ve done,” Percival fired off. “You’ll be brought to justice, just like every other privileged scumbag who thinks he’s above the law.”

“ _Really_ , Percival—playing the Auror card? After all I’ve done for you? Do you think you’d even _be_ an Auror if it weren’t for me and your Daddy?” Fontaine turned away from Credence and moved toward him. “Loose cannons like you are a real problem in politics. I understand you might be feeling resentful about some of the things I’ve said, but were any of them _really_ unfair?”

“You said those things on purpose,” Percival said, “to undermine Madam Picquery and help your friend escape. You’re a _traitor_.”

“That’s such a strong word. I think a better use of that word might be for someone who—hm…” Fontaine pretended to think about it. “Let’s see—gets captured and brainwashed by Gellert Grindelwald, _lies_ to his colleagues to hide Grindelwald’s accomplice, then breaks out of MACUSA custody to go into hiding in a _No-Maj residence_ , where he takes that accomplice and—”

“ _Enough_.” Credence stepped forward with a fury Percival had never seen in him before. He’d seen him distressed—angry, even—but never before had he had the impression that Credence really, truly wanted to hurt someone, even in self-defense. “Leave him alone.”

“All right, all right.” Fontaine took a step back, hands raising in amused deference.

“You know who I am,” Credence went on, “don’t you?”

“I can’t say I do, son.”

“You will.” At that Credence took a step toward him—as he did there was a sharp crack as the tile beneath his foot shattered.

Percival tensed. “Credence—easy.”

“Credence? Is that your name?” Fontaine latched on instantly, and Percival wished he could scoop the words back into his mouth. “There’s no need for you to be angry with me, Credence—I’ve only just learned you exist, after all.”

“You _knew_ ,” Credence spat. “You knew what you did.”

“What exactly is it you think I did?” he asked. “Is it something that Second Salem woman told you? Or him? Dear boy, you need to be a little more selective with who you trust!”

For a moment—just a moment—Credence looked as though he might waver.

“Don’t listen to him, Credence,” Percival said, coming in beside him and putting his hand on his shoulder stably. “He’s a liar.”

“I know.” Credence looked over at him, his blazing eyes softening for an instant, then turned back to Fontaine. “Why did you do it?”

Fontaine’s friendly façade was beginning to give way to irritation. “Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve been saying? I’m not the one you should be suspicious of, here.”

“Shut up.” Credence broke from Percival’s side and advanced on him—Percival had no idea what Fontaine saw in his face now that it was turned to him, but whatever it was had him stumble back a few steps. “I don’t care what you did back then. I just want to know where _he_ is now—”

He took a deep breath, and everyone paused for him to continue.

“—so I can kill him.”

“Oh, my stars. You are just—a little piece of work, aren’t you?” Fontaine laughed. “You know, I wasn’t going to say it, but this has all gone a bit far, hasn’t it? Still, if we turn him in together now, there’ll be no harm done; maybe something in it for you, even. You really _must_ be my son—I was thinking just the same—”

“I’M NOT—YOUR— _SON_!” Credence screamed suddenly. The sound tore through the air with a sick echo. Percival had never heard his voice so loud before; he could see him trembling even from feet away. “I’m not _anyone’s_ son! Now _tell me where he is_!”

With a type of precision Percival had never seen before, the Obscurus began to rise out of Credence—this time less a writhing mass and more a ghastly extension of his shadow. It was almost a human, shape, too—but long and twisted, looming thrice as high as its host, with jagged, unnatural shapes for limbs. Fontaine drew his wand and fired off a spell—the creature caught it in an inhuman maw and it fizzled out against the black smoke. In a matter of moments, Fontaine’s expression had become truly fearful, and his eyes darted from side to side, looking for a way out.

“My dear boy—I don’t—I can’t—I-I didn’t—”

“Fine.” Credence exhaled slowly, and now Percival could hear a lump in his throat. “Then I’ll kill you, too.”

Percival felt his stomach go cold.

“Credence, stop!” he shouted. Credence didn’t turn away from Fontaine, but he and the creature froze. “If you kill him, he can’t tell you anything else.”

**_GOOD._ **

It was less a voice and more a cold feeling—that did not seem to be coming from Credence at all, but from the thing looming over him. Every sound it made felt layered with a high, droning screech, like the wail of wind in a snowstorm when one is hopelessly lost.

“Credence, please—”

“I’ll tell you!” Fontaine cried, forgoing his wand and scrambling back against the nearest wall. A nearby ornamental suit of armor rattled as he bumped against it. “I’ll tell you everything I know—”

 ** _QUIET._** Percival saw Credence swoon slightly. As he did, the creature’s form stuttered and the voice went haywire: _TOO LOUD **TOO LOUD** YOU’RE ALL TOO LOUD—_

“Credence, wait! Think about this!”

“—everything I know, I swear—”

_YOU LIED YOU ALL LIE **THEY ALL LIE** —_

Percival ran towards him, but the closer he got the harder it became to move forward—as if some invisible force was trying desperately to push him away.

“We’ll do this together,” he called out, hopelessly. “ _Together_ , Credence!”

_I’LL SAVE YOU I’LL ALWAYS SAVE YOU—_

It still hadn’t lashed out—why hadn’t it lashed out? When it had attacked him in the cell, the reaction had been lightning-fast, and Fontaine was pinned like a bug beside the suit of armor: easy prey. Percival looked past the Obscurus and saw Credence clutching his head, tighter, tighter, as if his hands were going to crush his own skull.

_WHY WON’T YOU LET ME SAVE YOU?_

He was restraining it with all his might; but Percival could see the creature’s staticky form warping and stretching toward the man cowering against the wall, yearning. Then Credence’s head jerked back and the creature screeched.

**_STOP!_ **

The sound pierced through the cabinet in the center of the center of the room, cracking it top to bottom and sending glass exploding around them and cascading down over Theodard Fontaine’s robes. Percival ducked, covering his face; but under the shelter of his arm he could see the Obscurus contorting as it was sucked rapidly back into Credence’s body, as if it were trying to cling to the air for purchase.

When it had gone, Credence was kneeling on the floor with a blank, wasted expression—by the time Percival got to him, his eyes had closed again. Percival took him by the shoulders, shook him.

“No, no, no, not here, not now—come on, not here, stay with me…”

“It’s all right,” Credence rasped, without opening his eyes. His grip on Percival’s wrist was weak but steady. “I… did it.”

“You—you did what, Credence?”

Credence swallowed hard and his lips moved as if he were about to answer; but just then his eyes opened wide and he abruptly pushed Percival off him. For a moment, Percival reeled. Then he looked up and saw that Fontaine had moved out from where he’d been cowering against the wall, wand raised again.

Percival’s grip on his wand tightened. Fontaine gestured with his own.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Don’t make this difficult. You’ve already drawn this out enough, haven’t you, son?”

Behind him he heard Credence’s breath catch angrily.

“You can’t have thought I’d take it lying down,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Well…” Fontaine thought about it for a little. “True. But you can’t have thought I would let you walk away from this, either.”

Suddenly Percival saw him with a remarkable clarity that had temporarily escaped him. Former President or not, at this point, he was just a regular criminal.

Percival Graves knew how to deal with criminals.

“Are we doing this, then?” Fontaine raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Are you going to bow?”

“This isn’t a duel,” Percival said, raising his wand. “You’re under arrest.”

Fontaine laughed and raised his in turn. “You’re not an Auror.”

Percival squared himself. “It’s a citizen’s arrest, then.”

“Don’t teach you boys to fight clean in Magical Law Enforcement any more, do they?”

“Not for a long time now.” Percival gave him a pointed look. “Stop stalling.”

They cast their first blows almost simultaneously, the spells meeting in the air with a _crack_ , bouncing off one another. Percival threw up a shield just as the next blow came—Fontaine deflected his to the side with an easy flick of his wrist.

Quickly, Percival realised he was at a disadvantage and that Fontaine knew it; he was beginning to circle the two of them. Percival knew that he would go for Credence the second he stepped away—remove the unpredictable element—but that if he stayed stationary, he would soon be pinned into a corner. He clenched his jaw and stayed in front of Credence as Fontaine inched around him.

“You’re rusty, Graves,” Fontaine jabbed, as one of Percival’s spells missed him.

Percival cast another that would have hit him right in the chest if he hadn’t shielded at the last minute.

“And _slow_ ,” Fontaine added. “What _did_ he do to you? Can you even remember?”

Rage surged through him—he lashed his wand through the air and sent the man flying back into the remains of the glass case where he knocked over the mannequin bearing his ancestor’s robe.

“What was that?” He strode forward and struck again, seeing Fontaine’s hand clench on his wand as he moved to cast his shield too late. “Now who’s _slow_?”

Wand raised, he struck again, again, blow upon blow until he heard his own blood pounding in his ears and saw that Fontaine’s grip had slackened uselessly on his wand. As he looked at him, one last time, he saw him for what he really was. Frail. Cowardly. Pathetic. He was an ex-President and a criminal—but now, he was simply an old man, groaning on the floor.

“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” he muttered, and the wand flipped out of Fontaine’s hand and rattled against the floor. Then he rolled up his sleeve (he hadn’t realised how clammy his hands felt) and touched the tip of his wand to the admonitor bracelet the President had given him to communicate with Tina. “It’s over. The Aurors will be here soon.”

“Fine,” Fontaine glowered up at him and—for just a second—looked as if he might rise to his feet again. Then his eyes rolled back and closed, his head flopping to the side in exhaustion. “You win, Graves.”

Later, Percival would think this perhaps too obvious of a yield, but he was not thinking about Fontaine any more. He had turned his head enough to see that Credence was standing up again, his arms hovering half-open at his sides—Percival walked into them and felt them close desperately around his neck. He wrapped his own around Credence’s chest, held him so tight that he lifted him a few inches off the floor, feeling the needy press of his face into his neck.

“We need to go,” said Credence, finally, his voice a gentle hum against Percival’s throat. “We need to find Grindelwald.”

But Percival shook his head. “Tina and the other Aurors should be here soon. We have to wait for them.”

Credence pulled back enough to look at him. “But… if they take too long…”

“I don’t have another duel in me right now,” he told him, the adrenaline finally beginning to drain from his body. “I can’t do it… not alone.”

With a slow nod, Credence accepted his answer. Then he reached out and took Percival by the chin with clumsy fingers, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to keep him where he was.

“You’re _not_ alone,” he said vehemently. “Not any more.”

There were no words for what Percival felt when he heard those words; so he leaned in and kissed him, and Credence kissed him back, deep and slow. Slow—the world itself seemed to slow. For a moment he could forget they were standing in a jagged circle of broken glass, in the house of an enemy; the world was at once warm and quiet and strangely nebulous, like a waking dream. Amidst it all, Credence felt so solid and so _real_ that everything else had ceased to matter.

They pulled away and Percival still didn’t have words.

“You…” Shaking his head, he laughed wearily and caressed Credence’s cheek. “ _You_.”

Credence looked up at him and smiled—no, _beamed_ , and if Percival had lost his breath before, maybe now he’d never get it back.

The background had faded away: the knowledge that the Aurors were coming; the faint click of something being picked up; the relief that it would all be over soon; the thud of someone getting to their feet behind them.

Percival didn’t realise any of it meant anything until the brilliant light of Credence’s smile faded. By then, it was too late.

“ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

And just like that, it was dark.


	16. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. A lot of stuff happened and there are a lot of excuses I could technically make... but I won't. It's here now?
> 
> I've decided there will be an epilogue! But after that, we're done. :)  
> Thank you all for being so patient.

# 

_The way your smile just beams_   
_The way you sing off key_   
_The way you haunt my dreams_   
_No, no, they can't take that away from me_

_(Gershwin, 1937)_

 

One moment he was in the brightly lit entrance hall. The next, it was all gone, buried in a thick cloud of darkness. Percival closed his eyes, but there was no difference.

He had never really thought about what dying would feel like until very recently, but for some reason it didn’t surprise him that it was almost indistinguishable from living. He could still feel his heart racing, his breath moving, still felt the imprint of Credence’s kiss against his lips.

There was a thought; at least he had died somewhat happy. No sooner had he thought that than he realised he had left Credence _alone_ with someone who would almost certainly try to kill him, too. If he could only do something to protect him, somehow…

Something warm inched closer to him in the darkness, though he still couldn’t see. Then there was a searching hand on his chest, fingertips fumbling, patting firmer as they found him. Finally, a little voice said, “Percival?”

A beat. His heart sank. “Credence…”

But from out of the dark came a relieved sigh. “I thought—that maybe I was too slow.”

“You—you’re doing this?”

“Not me.”

A shaft of light appeared above their heads, and as it cast down on Credence’s face Percival could see that the two of them were enclosed in a sphere of darkness the walls of which, upon closer inspection, seemed to be alive. Speaking of which… with a little light shed on the subject, Percival could now see that the assumption that he, himself, had died was a touch premature.

His breath hitched. “How…?”

“I saw him—he was going to kill you.” Credence swallowed. “And I asked it to save you, somehow.”

“You asked… it? The Obscurus?” His stomach felt cold thinking of all he’d seen in the past few days; of Credence, falling apart. “Listen: you _cannot_ bargain with that thing, Credence. Thank you, but—”

“It’s all right.” Credence walked into him, not embracing but simply leaning deep against his shoulder. Percival’s heart clenched as he lay his head against his.

_I can’t lose you._

“Yes,” said Credence, and Percival blinked before realising he wasn’t talking to him. The warmth against his chest faded as Credence stepped back, and slowly the light returned as the sphere around them shrivelled away, leaving them just where they had stood in the Fontaine manor.

“Wh—but you…?” Behind them, Fontaine stood, panting, wand raised, staring at them in disbelief. As his gaze fixed nervously on Credence, Percival saw the blood draining from his face. “My boy—listen. It doesn’t have to be this—”

Credence looked at him, eyes brilliant white, and he fell silent. Above him, a dark shape circled hungrily—Percival had thought the Obscurus was gone, but it had simply taken to the air. Instead of clinging to Credence like a ghastly extension of his shadow, it was now moving freely with no tether, gliding laps around the three of them like a great whale.

“I’ll tell you everything,” Fontaine was saying, hurriedly. “Everything I know about Grindelwald, I swear—”

“ _Where_.” Credence wasn’t asking. The Obscurus was closing in.

“I don’t know!” Fontaine blurted—and he was so terrified that Percival didn’t doubt it, this time. “I swear I don’t know where he went. He said we would meet here—I told him how to get past the statues—but he was gone when MACUSA brought me back. I-I swear, that’s all I know!”

The Obscurus gathered itself behind Credence like a billowing cape, rippling around him without ever quite touching his skin. “I believe you.”

“I’ll turn myself in!” Fontaine cried, as Credence walked slowly towards him. “I’ll admit everything—I swear, no more. I can’t tell you anything else, th-there’s nothing else, I swear…”

But Credence didn’t back down. “What did you do to her?”

This time, Fontaine didn’t play dumb. Tears were rolling down his face as tendrils of the Obscurus licked it. “I didn’t—I never thought… I didn’t know she would get—a-and I never thought she’d actually _keep_ it—I-I mean, keep _you_ —I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , please stop…”

“ _No_.” The Obscurus’ chill roar echoed around the word. Fontaine dropped his wand.

“You can have anything you want!” he sobbed. “I have money, property—it’s yours! I-I mean, if you’re my son, then—”

Credence came to a halt, almost nose to nose with him, and said with sudden, complete calmness: “I’m not your son.”

The Obscurus reared back and then dove, plunging into the floor around them—Percival had been frozen to the floor but he tried to leap forward, tried to seize Credence out of the darkness. His hands fell through the air, catching on nothing.

And then it was quiet, except for a low, terrified whimper that turned the whole room cold. Fontaine was lying on the floor, curled on his side, with Credence standing over him—swaying, but steady.

Over them both, the Obscurus hovered in the air. Its silhouette wasn’t as human any more, but Percival could suddenly make out more of a shape than he had ever been able to before. A monstrous head (but a head, all the same), limbs of some sort—and it seemed _calm_ , somehow, settled in the air in front of Credence, bowing toward him as if at prayer. As he watched, Credence lifted his trembling arms into the air, and the creature inclined its head into them to be embraced. When he got close enough, Percival could hear him whispering to it.

“Thank you. For trying to protect me.”

A pause, in which Credence seemed to be listening—if he strained, Percival could hear an almost imperceptible murmur, but otherwise nothing at all.

“I-I—I know—yes, I _know_ ,” he said, a little firmer. “But—but I think I can do it myself now. I don’t need you any more.”

A much longer quiet. This time, it was punctuated with the faint whooshing sound of the Aurors Apparating onto the property, and the distant thud of footsteps outside; so Percival almost didn’t hear the last thing Credence said, barely a whisper.

“—I love you, too.”

Something was happening that he couldn’t quite explain or connect to, but that didn’t stop him from moving toward him. It was as if he had been watching all of this from deep underwater, his voice soundless, his movements pointless and slow; everything slow.

As he grew closer, Credence turned his head enough that Percival could see him watching him out of the corner of his eyes before he closed them slowly. Close enough to see his eyelashes flicker, close enough to want to kiss them back open—Percival’s insides turned cold as he watched his head tilt back, the black smoke obscuring his face. _No, no, no._ Every time he left his sight now, he wondered if it would be for the last time.

“Goodbye,” said Credence, as the Aurors thundered up behind them, Tina’s voice calling out, then cut short—

The Obscurus disappeared.

Disappeared was not, perhaps, the correct word for what Percival saw. It sank and lay nestled around Credence for a moment, its ghastly head still cradled in his arms; then parts of it began to peel away in little black petals or feathers or scales, floating away in the air. The room was silent except for the Obscurus’ low, indiscernible wail that was softening, softening until it was almost a sigh.

When it was gone, Credence didn’t waver or collapse—but he did look very tired, and slowly sat down on the tiles with his head in his hands. The thrall that had been hanging over the room gone, Percival went and knelt beside him, hesitantly laying his hand on his shoulder.

Tina rushed over to them just as Fontaine groaned and began to sit up. He looked at her—then turned his head to see the rest of the Auror team fanning around the lobby.

“Thank goodness—thank goodness you’re here,” he croaked. “These men attacked me—I’ve been—”

Tina cut him off. “Just don’t.”

Some of the Aurors were filing up the stairs and into the side rooms in small teams; the few who remained encircled them where they lay or knelt in the shards of the glass cabinet. Their expressions ranged from fear to rage, doubt to disgust. This was not going to be an overnight affair, Percival knew; whatever had happened here today was going to be felt for a while.

Fontaine tried a trembling smile and nodded, picking up his wand and wobbling to his feet. A few Aurors, Tina included, had their wands trained on him, but she held up her hand to keep them at bay. Then, as if bored, the wand simply shrugged itself out of his hand.

He stared at it, then bent to pick it up again. It rolled away, as if resisting; he scrambled for it, trying to scoop it up.

“I don’t understand—my wand—”

Percival suddenly looked at Credence, remembering how his own wand had turned useless in his hand after he’d touched it. This seemed different, somehow—the wand’s magic seemed to have remained intact, but…

“It’s not his wand.” Credence didn’t get up, didn’t look at Fontaine as he spoke. He stayed where he was in the shelter of Percival’s arm, voice muffled behind the hands that were tiredly covering his face.

There was a pause, where Percival saw Fontaine reaching desperately for something inside of himself—perhaps a spark that had once been a fire, a dim light in place of the sun—but it simply wasn’t there. His eyes darted about at the circle of people around him, then shot past them toward Credence.

“My magic… it’s… you couldn’t have!” The panic on his face contorted into rage. “What did you do to me, you little _freak_? How did you—”

Credence didn’t answer, but Tina stepped between them.

“That’s enough,” she said, firmly. “Mr. Fontaine, I suggest you cooperate.”

“That _thing_ took my magic!”

Percival tightened his arm around him.

“And you—” Fontaine turned his attention toward Percival. “ _You_ helped it! What the hell is wrong with you, Graves?”

It was an excellent question that he unfortunately had no answer to. Luckily, he didn’t have to; having had enough of all of this carry-on, Tina raised her wand and Stunned Fontaine before he could continue. His mouth went slack and he sank onto the floor again, silent.

“Keep searching the estate,” she told her Aurors. ‘Her Aurors’, Percival thought, for the first time—they really did seem like _her_ Aurors now. “I want two of you to take Fontaine back to MACUSA and put him in detention. No detours—and do it quietly, I don’t want this attracting attention.”

Two women stepped forward and took Fontaine by either arm, hoisting him between them. As they Disapparated and the rest of the team dispersed, Tina turned to look down at Percival and Credence.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, kneeling down to join them. She lay a concerned hand on Credence’s knee. “Credence, the Obscurus… what happened?”

“We’re not hurt,” Percival said, when Credence remained quiet, not looking at them. “As for that… I really don’t know. Credence, maybe…?”

“It’s gone,” said Credence, through a lump in his throat. “I got rid of it.”

“That’s great!” Tina exclaimed, almost tearful with relief. “It doesn’t matter how right now, Credence—all that matters is that you’re safe.”

For a while, Credence didn’t say anything. Then he nodded slowly. “Mm.”

In his arms Percival could feel him quivering. He looked up at Tina, voice lowering. “I think he needs to get out of here.”

“Of course.” Tina stood up and offered them both a hand. Percival took it; Credence stood on his own. “I need to oversee the search, but the President gave me instructions for the two of you.”

“Instructions?” Percival asked, straightening himself.

With a gentle smile, Tina squeezed the hand she had helped him up by.

“She says, ‘go home’.”

 _Home_. It had only been a few days, but it felt like forever since he had been home. Then he felt Credence shift closer to him and he thought; perhaps not. He helped him up and they walked out of the manor and into bright sunlight.

Yes—after everything, the sun was still shining, and it was _warm_ , and the wind tickled, and for the first time since he had woken up in Moll Dyer’s, Percival felt he could truly sense the world again. From the front steps they could hear voices inside and a bird singing somewhere in the garden, the muffled jingle of a bicycle bell out on the street. He held Credence’s hand tighter without thinking. The world was still turning, in spite of everything, and it didn’t seem that it would stop any time soon.

It was still difficult to walk away, after everything. As they walked down the path to the front gate, they passed the shattered remains of the statues that had been destroyed; around them the once pristine lawn was covered in skids and gouges where the battle had taken place.

The statues that hadn’t been destroyed were back on their pedestals, gleaming in the afternoon sun as if nothing had happened, though some of them sported new cracks and chips that hadn’t been there before. Once, Percival might have thought that something to aspire to; to return exactly to one’s proper place and appear impervious, in the face of carnage that had torn so many apart. Now, there was a part of him that almost felt sorry for them.

“Ready?” he asked Credence, who nodded.

The next moment they were standing in the street outside Percival’s house, swaying faintly against each other from the dizziness. Neither of them said anything as they walked through the gate, but as they walked under the rose arch, Credence suddenly stopped, anchoring him to the spot.

“They were white,” he said, eyes aimed up at the roses, when Percival gave him a curious look. “The roses. They were white the first time I saw them.”

Percival blinked. “They were?”

“He brought me here one night when Ma was out.” Letting go of his hand, Credence walked over to the arch. “Wh-when we came through the gate, he stopped me—told me to look—and he turned them red.”

Though Percival’s stomach was starting to twist nervously, he listened. Credence’s hand was hovering at his side.

“He picked one and gave it to me. I pricked my finger—I dropped it—” His hand clenched as if remembering the pain. “And he, um… put it in his mouth.”

Percival frowned. “The rose?”

Credence shook his head and turned very red. “I thought I was going to die.”

That seemed a bit extreme; but another look at Credence’s anxious face and it was clear there was no need to comment on it. Percival cleared his throat and ventured, “I didn’t realise your Ma let you go out like that.”

“Well… she doesn’t. Didn’t.” Credence’s shoulders hunched a bit. “I-I pretended I got beat up on my way home.”

“Did she believe you?”

“N-no.” In spite of it, Credence laughed. “She never believed anything I said. It was silly to try.”

“It wasn’t silly,” said Percival—then remembered what they’d been talking about and bit his tongue.

“It… it was.” Credence looked up at him, warily. “I want to talk to you about it. About… that.”

At that, Percival tensed. Sensing his apprehension, Credence backpedalled.

“N-not the way you think!” he protested. “I just—I needed to make sure you knew that—well, that…”

He was looking at him for help, now, so Percival reached out and took his hand again. “Go on.”

“That it _is_ different,” he said. “Before, there was… something, I-I guess, between me and him, but the way I feel about you is… it’s just _different_.”

Percival’s chest tightened.

“The person I thought _he_ was, he… he said everything I wanted to hear, made it so easy to like him. He was everything I thought I ever wanted, only none of it was real.” Credence gripped his hand suddenly tighter, and he was staring very hard at it as though moving his eyeline at all would wreck his focus. “But you—you never _tried_ to make me like you. You just showed me who you were. And I… and _I_ …”

Hot tears were dripping down onto their entwined hands. Percival went to pull him in, but Credence pulled back, enough to wipe the tears from his eyes again and look up at him.

“I don’t know who I am,” he told him, through tears. “I don’t know what I am without—without Ma, without… _it_ , without—without him, even. B-but because of you, I can find out. I _want_ to find out.”

“All those things, Credence—they might have shaped you, but they weren’t _you_.” Percival was blinking very hard so that he wouldn’t cry, too. “I hope you do find out who you are. Then you might see why… why I like him so much.”

Awkwardly, Credence reached out to wipe the happy tear from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said, with a trembling smile—but a smile all the same.

“Don’t say that.” Percival shook his head. “You deserve everything.”

Above their heads the wine-red roses faded to crimson, to a paler red—and before they could turn white again as Percival thought they might, they melted from a blushing pink to a gentle lilac. Though his focus was still on Credence, Percival caught a glimpse of the changing petals past his head and blinked at it—and Credence, after checking to see what he was looking at, tilted his head at him curiously.

“I didn’t do that,” he said, feeling dumbstruck. “Did you…?”

Credence shook his head meekly.

Once, Percival might have pressed harder—demanded an explanation—felt sick without the security of certainty. Now, it didn’t seem so important to _know_ at all. He found himself thinking, as he took Credence’s hand and led him up to the front door, of what Seraphina had said before.

There was deep magic in this world that they simply didn’t understand. Magic was an extension of oneself—and much in the same way his had become blocked and unpredictable when his confidence was shattered, Credence’s had warped in the face of unspeakable circumstances to become a twisted creature capable of protecting him. But it seemed that even that thing—that monster, that violent parasite—had been capable of a form of love.

Percival didn’t know exactly what had passed between Credence and the Obscurus, and he didn’t ask as they entered the Graves estate, welcomed by an ecstatic Poppy and a reserved Claudius, glowering at the other end of the hall. He was not foolish enough to think that his feelings alone had saved Credence when they reached him; in fact, when he thought about it— _really_ thought about it—it seemed more likely that Credence had saved himself.

Saved him, too.

There was not a sense of finality as they entered the house together, no defining moment where they realised that every trouble they’d wrestled with had seamlessly resolved. After all, there was a great deal that was yet to be decided.

No matter what they had achieved, there was no way of knowing what might happen to Credence now; Percival’s own future was equally uncertain, and even if he had been able to return to Auror work right away, he had no idea if he was even ready. What was more, they had no idea where Grindelwald had gone or what his next move might be. If he would come back for them, or simply wreak further havoc on the world, was anyone’s guess.

Percival had no illusion of these troubles simply melting away without more stress and hard work—but for now, it was fair enough to say that they’d earned a break.

While he’d been lost in thought, Credence had drifted ahead of him, and now stood under the landing, fingers winding thoughtfully around the door-handle of the cupboard under the stairs.

In his mind’s eye he saw an oily black trail leading under the door, a mass of smoke bursting out of the cupboard towards him—he smiled as he went to join him, moving up behind him and laying his head on his shoulder, arms around his waist.

“Really?” he asked, but softly; a fond echo of something he had said a long time ago.

“‘I’m sorry’.”

It was another echo, not a statement; as Credence’s hand fell away from the door and folded gently over his own, Percival suddenly wondered if he could look back on that memory as fondly as he could.

“We could start over,” he suggested guiltily, though he attempted to sound as if he were half-joking.

Credence turned his head and lay it against his. Simply. Calmly. There was an ease about him Percival had never felt before, and suddenly he wondered why he had worried at all.

“We don’t need to.”


End file.
